Desiderata
by MinP1072
Summary: desiderata — things wanted or needed, longed for; indispensable things. Exonerated (more or less), and trying to find her feet, Liz is struggling, and goes to Red for a little…personal help. He's always willing to do her a favour, especially this one, but things go in a direction neither of them expect. Will their new relationship bring them together, or tear them apart?
1. I: Entreaty

It's late, the first time, late enough that it could be called early, instead.

He is alone, sleep eluding him as it often does, working his way through a bottle of Scotch and staring out at the night.

Brooding and absorbed in his thoughts, he doesn't hear her, doesn't know she's there until she's right in front of him, saying his name.

"Lizzie," he acknowledges, trying to keep the surprise from his voice. Since her indictment and release, she has been distant, angry, antagonistic, even, and he cannot imagine what would bring her to him now, in the wee hours.

"I thought the door was locked," he continues, looking carefully at her, curious but wary.

She just raises an eyebrow, with a shadow of a smile, and he laughs.

"Where's Dembe?" she asks, her voice quiet in the still room.

"Sleeping," he answers honestly. "It's very late, Elizabeth."

Her smile disappears, but her eyes stay on his face, direct and unapologetic. "I need you to do something for me."

He blinks. "Of course, Lizzie, anything." _You should know that by now_ , he wants to add, but doesn't.

She takes the tumbler from his hand abruptly and gulps the remainder of the liquid.

"I'm also going to need you to remember that you said that," she says.

It's his turn to raise an eyebrow, but he doesn't say anything, just waits, watching her. But her expression is closed, her face set in a manner he doesn't recognize. She opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again, licks her lips as if she is nervous.

Then, a flash of movement, and her weight is settling over his thighs, and those wet lips are on his, her hands cold on his face. She carries the earthy flavour of his Scotch, and something else, wilder and sweet. He's shocked enough that it takes a few warm, enticing moments to pull back, searching her face for answers, his hands coming up to grip hers and pull them down between them.

"Elizabeth, what…"

"You said _anything_ ," she interrupts, talking fast. "Didn't you mean it?"

His eyes narrow slightly and he reevaluates quickly. "What is it that you're asking for?" he says, needing the words, the affirmation.

"I need…" she starts, then stops. She shifts a little closer, tightens her fingers against his. "I'm hungry," she says softly, watching him intently. "It makes me restless, edgy, off my game. I can't focus on work; I'm starting to take risks in the field."

He says nothing, just looks at her, waiting. Waiting to see if she is in earnest.

She tugs a hand free and slips it under his open collar, sliding across his collarbone with a sigh. "Touch," she says, a little dreamily, "is so important, don't you think? It's been so long since…Wouldn't you like to touch me, too?"

"Elizabeth," he says, grasping for reason, trying to remember why he shouldn't just go right ahead and strip her bare.

"I didn't come here to talk," she returns, pulling her remaining hand out of his grasp and going to work on the buttons of his shirt. "I'd much rather have your hands on me."

The heat that had been slowly unfurling inside flashes over him in a wave. He grips her waist to yank her the rest on the way onto his lap, smothering her startled laugh with a hard kiss. She opens to him easily, eagerly, and he feels a thrill at the tug of her hand fisting into his shirtfront, the press of her knees against his hips.

And since she's right, and he _would_ like to touch her, he runs his hands under her shirt to play over the skin of her back, silken and warm. She shifts restlessly over him, finishing his buttons and pulling his shirt over his shoulders. She leaves it crinkled at his elbows; wraps one hand around his neck to strengthen her kiss, letting the other discover him, using her nails, none too gently, to trace his ribcage and scratch through his chest hair.

Nervy tendrils of desire flare in the wake of her fingers, and he's already hard enough that he aches. He thinks now that he knows what she's looking for, and he is more than happy to oblige. He breaks their kiss and looks at her — she's a vision, now, eyes gone bright and brilliant, cheeks flushed, her dark hair tumbling at her shoulders. She flexes her fingers at his neck, and he smiles.

"Strip," he says, almost casually, and she blinks but doesn't move.

"I know you heard me," he says, his voice deepening. "Strip. Take off your clothes. Let me see you, Elizabeth."

She's shaking a little as she stands, and he knows he was right. She makes quick work of it, peeling off her top, pulling off her boots and socks, and shimmying out of her jeans, kicking it all aside impatiently. She's left in scraps of bold red lace that hide nothing at all, and he makes a noise of appreciation deep in his throat.

"Leave them," he says, as her hands move to unclasp her bra, "for now."

He tugs his own shirt the rest of the way off and reaches out a hand. She comes willingly, straddling his lap again; he can smell her arousal as she moves. He cups her breasts in his hands, lush and lovely, his touch firm and sure, and rubs his thumbs over her pebbled nipples, making her gasp.

He can't resist; he bends his head to her left breast and puts his mouth on her, sucking through the lace and scraping with his teeth so she whimpers. His hand stays at the right, pulling and teasing and pinching at her nipple; his other follows the curve of her body to slip under the edge of her thong. She moans as he strokes her; she's drenched and swollen under his fingers and he lifts his head to look at her again.

The image of her burns into his mind — head tipped back and eyes closed; lips parted as she breathes, short and fast; her back arched to fill his hands.

"God, you're beautiful," he says, his voice rough and deep. "And so ready, aren't you, sweetheart?"

He thrusts two fingers inside her as he speaks, hard, and she cries out, her fingers digging into his skin. She is hot and wet and soft, clutching at his fingers as he pushes in and out. She leans into him, her mouth moving over his jaw, his neck, sucking hard. Her arms are wrapped around him for balance as her hips move with his hand.

"Please," she says into his skin, raspy with need, " _please_."

Because he wants to, because he wants to see her fall, feel her ecstasy and hold it close, he presses his thumb against her clit; rubs in tight circles as his fingers continue to move. She moans again, her legs tightening against his thighs, her face pressed to his shoulder. Every time he puts his teeth to her, she gets wetter and more responsive. Everything is slick and warm and she's making soft little noises interspersed with broken words — _yes, there_ and _more_ and _harder_ and _Red, please_.

He slides in a third finger and she breaks, one high cry escaping her, then choking off as if it is too much to bear. She pulses against his hand, her body quivering against him; he drops his head to nuzzle at her neck with a row of biting kisses. She tastes of salt and lemons and summer, and he needs to be inside her more than he's ever needed anything.

She comes back to herself as he's sliding off her excuse for a bra, and twists her legs obligingly so he can peel away her sodden thong. Then her hands are on him, unbuckling his belt and fumbling with his zipper, slipping a hot hand into his boxers to free him, thick and hard and eager. She bites her lip as she looks at him, then raises her face to his and smiles.

She locks her eyes on his and braces herself with one hand on his shoulder, rising up and over him. She grips his cock with her other hand, dips down enough to drag the tip through her folds, the contact making him draw in a harsh breath.

Her face is intent as she sets him against her, then slides over him, inch by agonizing inch, until he wants to howl. Her eyes finally close as she comes flush against him, her sighing moan of pleasure everything he needs. He waits as long as he can, exulting in the feel of her surrounding him; when he can't stand it any longer, he grasps her hips and urges her up, then pulls her back down hard, hard enough that she yelps in surprise.

It's like a spark has been lit, then — their hands gripping, panting breaths mingling as she rides him, fast and forceful. The sounds they make together drive him to thrust into her, taking his turn to gasp words into her hair — _yes, like that_ and _faster_ and _so good_. She cries out again, _Red_ , and her nails dig into his skin as she comes. His own orgasm burns at the base of his spine and he pushes deep, as far as he can, then releases insider her in long, hot pulses.

He slides his arms up and around her, pulling her close so that her heart beats against his, so he can breathe in their mingled scents. It seems like hours, and also like no time at all, that they sit, locked together, breathless.

Not nearly long enough, when she turns her face to his neck to lick at the scar she gave him, to follow it with a sucking, open-mouth kiss. She pushes herself up to sitting with a sigh and clambers to her feet with a slight wince as he slides out of her. She dresses efficiently, while he sits, spent and bemused.

"Well," she says, "that was…well. Thanks. I expect I'll see you tomorrow." She leans over and gives him a friendly kiss on the mouth, with one last nip at his bottom lip.

He doesn't move or speak as he watches her leave. Only when he hears the door shut quietly does he manage to move, tucking himself away and standing to zip up his pants and head to bed, though the thought of sleep has never been more ridiculous.

He takes a step, then bends over to pick up the red lace she left behind.


	2. II:Temptation

The alarm goes off ridiculously early — as she fumbles for her phone without even opening her eyes, she figures she will be running on less than two hours of rest.

She feels fantastic.

She stretches her neck as she walks to the bathroom — no, _strolls_ , like she's had an incredible meal, an hour-long massage, and about twelve hours of sleep. She stops in front of the sink, then just stares at her reflection.

Her hair's a mess and her face a little pale, but her lips are red and a bit swollen still. On her collarbone, disappearing under her tank, a scatter of neat little marks, marching like footprints. She peels off her top, and her breath catches, a hot quiver in her stomach. There are more, little suck marks all over her torso, and, pulling at the waistband of her shorts, she can see bruises where his fingers gripped her, perfect little purple ovals.

She loves it.

She knew he'd be able to give her what she needs.

She finds herself singing in the shower, and laughs, loose and happy and content.

She wears a red shirt, and leaves her hair down because she likes the way it feels against her neck.

When she swings into the Post Office elevator, he's there, and he looks as good as she feels. She ignores him, like she always does.

"Good morning, Lizzie," he says politely, like _he_ always does, and if there's a current of amusement in his tone, that's nothing new either.

He leans over to push the button, deliberately dropping his shoulder so it catches her eye; when she glances over, it's there, peeking above his collar, a reddish-purple welt. She looks away, biting the inside of her lip to keep from smiling.

He doesn't have a case, apparently, is just there to speak with Cooper, so she heads for the floor, humming absently under her breath. As she reaches the open area, she suddenly realizes that without a case, she has no real business here. She looks around at her former coworkers uncomfortably.

Aram smiles at her with a wistful sort of shrug; surprisingly, it's Ressler who offers her a bit of salvation.

"There's some paperwork leftover from…before," he says in a friendly way. "You can use your old desk, if you like."

"Thanks," she says, relief overtaking the qualms of fear and doubt. She takes the pile of folders and strides off, feigning a confidence she is no longer sure she actually feels.

It's less than half an hour until Reddington shows up at the door, leaning against the frame and watching her quietly.

"What do you want?" she snaps, careful to keep her voice at the appropriate level of snark. " _Some_ of us still have work to do."

He flashes a toothy grin, but his eyes are sharp on her face, keenly evaluating.

"By all means, get on with it then," he replies cheerfully. "My day is simply _packed_. I'll let you know when I've…got something for you, shall I?"

She restrains herself from rolling her eyes with some difficulty and returns to her paperwork with nothing but a disdainful sniff.

His rich laughter trails after him as he walks away, and the heat is back in her belly, simmering, the soreness between her legs aching pleasantly.

She doesn't see him again for days.

* * *

By Saturday night, all the marks have faded away, only shadows of his fingerprints left across her hips.

Naked in her bedroom, she presses her own fingers into them and moans softly at the heat that spreads through her.

She'll go out, she decides, and burn off at least some of the energy that's built up inside.

She puts some effort into it — makeup and heels and a dress of deep royal blue that's high and prim on top, if sleeveless, but barely mid-thigh in the full skirt. She thinks she'll have a couple of drinks and dance and maybe flirt a little.

She has her cab drop her off on Logan Circle and wanders; picks a place at random, liking the mix of sounds that spirals out the open door, the way you can't see anything from the street because it's dark and smoky.

Inside, she waits a minute for her eyes to adjust, enjoying the big-band era hit coming from an old-fashioned jukebox. Then she decides that either the universe is entirely too small, or it is her lucky night, because across the room, behind a couple of pool tables, holding court on a large banquette, is Red.

He's spread out, the way he does, arms wide, his eyes glinting in the dim light as he laughs at something the man next to him says. There are three men with him, all in sharp suits, smoking cigars and drinking scotch; she supposes they must be criminal contacts, and cannot bring herself to care.

She walks over to the bar to get a drink, makes sure her back is to him, for now. Her dress gleams like a sapphire in the hazy air, and she's sure he'll spot her eventually. She enjoys a flirtation with the bartender while she waits, until she feels the burn of eyes on her back. She's certain it's Red, and when she turns around to lean against the bar, it is — he quirks an eyebrow at her and lifts his glass slightly in salute.

She returns the gesture, then downs the rest of her drink and leaves the glass on the bar, licking the last of the liquid off her lips. With just this exchange of glances, her breasts are tingling, her nipples tighter under the silky fabric of her dress. Taking a breath, she walks across the room, letting her hips sway to the music a bit, past him and his table of cronies to the darker room beyond, where people crowd a small dance floor, moving to an entirely different beat of music.

She loses herself among them — this is what she came for, after all. She used to love to dance, and it is a peculiar kind of liberation to discover that she still does. The music doesn't matter, just the beat, the movement, the crush of bodies and the feeling of being taken out of her head.

She finds no shortage of partners — men willing to swing her around, to push up against her in the dark, crowded space in a shimmy of hips. Three, maybe four songs in, she feels him again, that sharp, intent gaze that pierces into you and sees everything you don't want him to see. She blinks and finds him, alone now, leaning against the wall and watching her.

The way he's looking at her, hot and possessive and oh-so-knowing…it's intoxicating, and her body responds easily. She moves now in a sensual undulation, running her hands up her sides and sliding past her breasts to curve around her current partner's neck and enjoy the press of his flat chest against her own.

She doesn't think she has ever moved like this before; showing off, wanton and putting on a display. She's hot inside and out by the time the music changes again, covered in a light sheen of sweat and heat licking the inside of her skin. She wonders if it's possible to burst into flame, and laughingly begs off the next dance to escape to the bathroom and collect herself.

The quick breather, the cold water on the back of her neck, they don't really help. She's still wound tight, like her skin is too small for everything inside her, like the air is too hot to breathe. It's relief as much as surprise that floods her when she opens the door and he's there, lounging against the wall opposite the door.

He takes her arm with customary courtesy but without a word; draws her down the hall in the opposite direction to the dance floor. They round a corner that is suddenly just an alcove, and he's there, in her space, mouth on hers, hands in her hair, body crowding her up against the wall.

Every nerve in her body lights; her hands fist in the back of his jacket, pulling him closer, closer, like he could never be close enough. He's rumbling deep in his throat and their tongues slick against each other, frantic; she rubs against him shamelessly, desperate for contact.

His hands move, sliding down her neck; one stops at the base of her throat and presses gently, pinning her to the wall, the other following her body down to slide under the hem of her dress. Then his hand is on her, and she's so wet already it's almost embarrassing, except for the way his breath catches and his eyes seem to glow in the dim.

"Elizabeth," he growls, "are you naked under that pitiful excuse for a dress?"

She smiles, managing to make it slow and hungry and teasing. "Yes," she says, "I am."

And they both moan as he slides two fingers inside her, and kisses her again, hard and hot and fast. Then he's watching her with narrow eyes, his hand still moving against her, inside her, and she whimpers and shifts to reach his mouth but he's still pressing her against the wall and she can't.

"I admit I'm curious," he says, and his voice is so low and deep and rich that she thinks if he just talked to her for a little longer it would be enough to bring her release.

She's so focused on it that she misses the rest of what he says, and has to ask, "Sorry, what?"

He laughs, and she wants to purr. "I said, why me, hmmm? You've certainly got…options."

She doesn't want to answer that; she looks away, biting her lip and pushing into his hand. He stops moving, and she looks back at his face quickly — he's got an eyebrow quirked and a look of endless patience on his face and she knows he won't move again until she talks.

"I–I…" she doesn't want to, she doesn't. "Because I needed _you_." She's flushed and horrified, but she still moans quietly in relief when his fingers start to move once more.

"Oh?" he drawls, a long, lazy smile on his face.

The last thing she wants to do is give any more away, but she couldn't stand it if he stopped again.

"I t–tried not to," she stammers, grinding into his palm and stumbling over words every time he presses in. "But I c–can't…with a s–stranger. I went to T–Tom first."

His eyes narrow further and the pressure on her chest increases, his fingers get rougher inside her. "Really," he says quietly. "And?"

"It wasn't…" she can't figure out how to say it without sounding filthy, so she doesn't. "He thinks he knows me, but he d–doesn't, he never did. I thought it would be simpler, but it wasn't," she admits. "H–he asked me to m–marry him again, I mean _honestly_."

"You let him put his hands on you?" Low and hoarse and dangerous.

She nods, not wanting to say it.

"Didn't do the job, though, did he?" Red is almost smug now, and knowing, entirely too knowing. "He can't give you what you need, he never could, could he, sweetheart?"

She shakes her head, she's beyond speech, lost in the quick thrust of his fingers and the heel of his hand against her clit.

"None of them could, hmmm? They don't see _you_ , not _this_ Lizzie — they just see what they want to see. They don't understand that you don't want sweet words or tender hands, well-meaning attempts at making love in a cozy bed. _You_ ," he continues, closing in so that his lips graze her ear, his hot breath on her neck, "you want a good, hard fuck, don't you, sweetheart?"

And he pulls his hands away so she gasps, bereft and aching; steps back so her arms drop and she nearly topples over, and she'd been so close, so close. She blinks open her eyes, prepared to beg if she has to, but he's moving again, circling her wrists with one big hand and yanking them over her head, slamming them against the wall. He's already got his cock in his other hand, pulling in hard long strokes as he watches her pant.

"Please," she whimpers, "I need you."

"He won't touch you again," Red says, the warning clear in his voice. "No one else, Lizzie — while I'm fucking you, no one else touches you."

"Y–yes," she answers, words tumbling out like falling pebbles. "No one else, no one but you."

Then he's moving in quick, deft gestures; pulling her leg up over his hip and finding her opening with his hand and the head of his cock. He shoves inside her in one brutal push that she feels all the way to her toes and he smothers her cry with his mouth on hers.

He's gone after a moment of tangled tongues and teeth and lips to kiss along her jaw, like mouth to mouth keeps the rest of him too far away from her. He's pushing her, into her, so much closer with every part of him touching part of her, and he's so deep inside her it dances on the edge of painful.

"Hush now," he whispers, "anyone could walk by here anytime."

She didn't think it was possible, but his words spark another rush of moisture, and she's so wet she can feel it on her thighs. He hitches her leg higher with his free hand, and starts a litany of words in her ear as he thrusts, _like that_ and _so hot_ and _it's amazing_ and _oh, yes_ and finally just her name, the one that's his alone, _Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie_.

And she's gone before she quite realizes it, stars behind her eyes and she can't feel her feet and she's never come so hard in her life. He's grunting now, lost to speech at last, and she revels in it, in his loss of control, and then he's coming too, hot spurts inside her and his teeth on her neck and his sweat on her skin and she wishes it would never end.

He braces himself on the wall, letting go of her hands; she wraps her arms around his neck and drops into him. She can feel his heart hammering against hers, his shirt damp against her cheek; she wonders how long it will take before she can breathe normally.

He's talking now, his voice a hoarse rasp that makes her want him all over again.

"Is this what you want?" he's saying. "Is it the public setting, or just the play?"

Her face reddens, and she's glad that she's hidden in crook of his neck. "Both," she admits, because it's true.

"We have to be more careful than this," he says. "There's too much risk."

"But…we'll…I mean…" Again, she feels hot and embarrassed, but his laugh is conspiratorial and not mocking, and his lips move over her hair, her jaw, her neck.

"I'm not about to quit now," he says. "I haven't had anywhere near enough of you, Elizabeth."

Another thrill goes through her, and she turns her face to bite his chest, catching his nipple between her teeth and making him gasp.

"Chance encounters simply won't do, that's all — planning's better. I'll text you," he says, "with instructions."

 _Oh_ , she thinks, trembling and achy and warm right through. _OH_.

He's unwinding her leg now, setting her on her two feet and rearranging her dress. He smoothes his hands over her shoulders and down to rest on her hips.

"I should have asked before," he says, only now a slight hesitation to his voice. "But you're still taking the birth control pill, aren't you?"

She remembers having to get him to ask Mr Kaplan for a supply while they traveled together, and flushes a little. "Yes," she says, "and I…I made Tom wear a condom."

He smiles at that, and kisses her lightly, then again, and again, and they're sliding into each other, open and wet and hard, because it's too good, too much.

He pulls back after long minutes, flushed himself and regretful. "I have to go," he says, checking his watch. "You cannot imagine how much I wish that I didn't. I want you to go straight home," he adds, eyes sharp on hers. "Don't even stop in the bathroom. Straight home, full of me and you and _us_."

She draws a long, shuddering breath, lust and need and fulfillment all warring within, and nods wordlessly. She leans in impulsively and pulls his collar aside so she can kiss his neck, over his (her) scar again, sucking hard and biting down before she breaks away.

She slips around him and walks down the hall away from him, resisting the urge to look back.

 _This_ , she thinks, as she exits the club, her legs slick and slippery where they brush together, _is going to be fun_.


	3. III: Mesmerized

He stands at the window alone, staring out at the grey morning. The day may be dull, but he is energized and alert and ready for whatever may come — and it's easy for him to realize why, even two days later. He's had a number of lovers over the years, done an incredibly wide range of things, he muses, but Lizzie…Lizzie is transcendent. He rubs at the bruise on his neck with a small smile.

His thoughts are interrupted by the soft footfalls and unobtrusive voice of his closest companion.

"Raymond, you were correct. Baz confirms that her plane has just landed."

Red shakes himself out of his reverie and turns with a wider, different smile.

"Wonderful!" he exclaims. "Get Elizabeth on the line for me, would you?"

Dembe pulls a burner from his pocket and dials without comment; hands it over as it rings.

"Lizzie, good morning," Red says cheerfully. "Gather the troops — The Mesmerist is in town."

* * *

She stands on the central floor of the Post Office, marshalling herself to address the team — not as one of its members, this time, but merely a mouthpiece for Reddington. _No_ , she reminds herself firmly, _as a consultant and valuable asset yourself_. She takes a deep breath.

"The Mesmerist," she begins, photos beginning to appear on the wall of screens above them. "Or, as she's known throughout society's upper echelon, Rebecca Stanton, behavioral therapist and self-help guru. If you've got a bad habit to kick, and enough money to throw at your problems, she's your answer.

She's also an incredibly successful assassin, responsible for dozens of deaths amongst the wealthy and powerful — and criminal."

"I think if one of the most renowned faces in 'lifestyles' was a serial killer, we'd already know about it," Ressler interjects, with sarcasm heavy in his voice.

"We would," Liz agrees, tamping down the flash of anger that comes with his attitude. "If she was the one doing the killing. According to Reddington, the reason she's so successful — and so sought after — is that she doesn't do the work directly. Reddington believes that she uses her clients as proxies; that somehow during her work with them, she remakes them into murderers. He claims she is responsible for the deaths of Leonard Brown, Vincent Macchiusi, and Molly Shannon, among others."

"All unsolved cases," Samar says, reading the screens carefully. "And each victim a key figure in business with suspected — but unproven — connections to mob, drug, or other criminal activity."

"Okay," Cooper says, with a soft clap of his hands. "She's definitely worth a closer look, at the very least. We don't have enough to get a warrant, so…"

"She's hosting a seminar at the Walter Washington," Liz says quickly. "It would be a good way to have a look and get a feel for her, without raising suspicion."

"Good," Cooper says thoughtfully, "I like it. Ressler, Navabi, get down there and see how it plays out — if there's a subtle way to talk to her when she's finished, do it. Aram, see if you can find out what private clients she has here in town."

"Child's play," Aram answers with a smile.

"Sir," Liz says hastily, "I really think I should go to the seminar — with my skills as a profiler…"

"I don't deny you'd be useful, Liz," Cooper says, with a slight emphasis on her name. "But you're no longer an agent. I cannot put you in the field right now, no matter how seemingly benign the assignment. I'm sure Aram can use your help here."

"Of course!" Aram breaks in earnestly, watching Liz' face fall slightly. "It would be great to have your help gathering info on current and past clients. Really," he adds, in face of her skeptical expression.

There's the usual hustle of bodies as Samar and Ressler collect their gear and leave, Samar tossing Liz a regretful smile on the way to the elevator. She heaves a sigh, and looks at Aram, sitting at his desk, already tapping busily at his keyboard.

"Do you _really_ need help?" she asks.

"Definitely!" he replies, glancing up with a warm grin. "Have a seat, Liz, and let's get down to business."

She sits, with no real option, just grateful now to have this genuine and generous man in her corner.

* * *

Two hours later, her eyes are blurring and her brain feels fuzzy and dull. When the ping of her cell phone breaks through the fog, she doesn't think she's ever been so happy to hear it.

"Keen," she says, getting it out almost before the phone is at her ear.

In reply, a rich chuckle greets her. "My, Elizabeth, are we tired of desk work already?"

"I'm just…" she glances at Aram and turns her chair a little. "Just anxious about the case."

"Nothing to do, hm?"

"That's it," she answers ruefully.

"Well, then, why don't you meet me?" he suggests, voice low and gravelly in the way that makes her stomach quiver. "For an early lunch?"

She thinks she probably shouldn't, that she should stay and try to make a good impression on Cooper, to work hard to regain the respect of her coworkers, her boss. But her system is already running fast and hot, like she'd just been waiting for the rush, her mind filling with images of his face — intent as he gives her pleasure, fierce as he finds his release.

"All right," she says, trying not to sound as eager as she is. "Where?"

"I'll text you the address," he replies cheerfully. "À bientôt, sweetheart."

A few seconds after he ends the call, her phone buzzes again, with his texted address. She stands, maybe a little too quickly, and Aram looks up at her.

"News on the case?"

"Just Reddington," she answers, remembering to roll her eyes. "He says he has more information for me."

Aram smiles back. "Good luck with him," he says sympathetically.

"Thanks," she says, clamping down hard on the giddy laugh that wants to escape.

 _Luck_ , she thinks, _is one thing I probably won't need_.

* * *

She's literally buzzing with anticipation by the time she parks her car — her hands are actually trembling. She walks down the street, checking numbers — these apartments? Not the yoga studio with the whole front done in glass.

She spots the right number and...everything freezes for a hotly embarrassing moment. The address Red had sent her appears to be a pleasant little Italian bistro.

God, she feels like such an idiot.

 _Come on, Liz,_ she tells herself fiercely. _If he gets even an_ inkling, _you'll never live it down._

She marshalls herself and slips inside the restaurant, the light dim after the late morning sunshine. It seems a nice place, with well-spaced, white-clothed tables scattered around, the room edged with circular booths of deep red leather. It's in one of these that she spots Reddington, about halfway down the right wall, watching her and smiling.

She slides into the opposite side — _all business, now_ , she reminds herself — and greets him coolly.

"Reddington," she says, "nice place. Do you have more information on the case?"

"Oh, not at the moment, no," he returns. "I was on my way here and thought you might be hungry."

She opens her mouth for a sharpish retort, but her phone buzzes in her pocket, so she yanks it out instead.

"The seminar's finished," she says, glancing at him quickly. "Ressler and Samar are waiting to talk to Stanton."

"Excellent," he replies, and starts to shift his body when a man approaches their table, face wreathed in smiles as he reaches out for Red's hands.

"Raymond!" he gushes, as Red stands, slipping out of the booth to embrace the man with a returning grin.

"Leo," he says, "always such a pleasure."

"And who is this, eh?" Leo turns to Elizabeth — she can't help but respond to his beaming face and earnest good will.

She stands up too, and shakes politely; laughs a little when he bows his head and kisses the back of her hand.

"Elizabeth Keen," she says, "we…"

"Elizabeth is an old friend," Red inserts neatly. "Not nearly as old as you, of course," he adds with a wink.

Leo laughs and slaps Red on the back. "I've got a Barolo in from a new vineyard that I think you'll love — can I bring you a bottle?"

"Please do," Red answers cheerfully. "And then Elizabeth and I would love ten or fifteen minutes to catch up before we order."

"Of course, of course," Leo gushes happily. "Old friends make the best companions, don't they? I'll be back in just a minute."

He bustles away, and Red and Liz both sit down again; this time, Red slides in until he is right next to her, his thigh brushing hers, the spicy scent of his cologne teasing at her.

"I saw you hesitate before you came in," he says. "Don't care for Italian, then?"

She flushes; she can't help it.

"Just wanted to make sure I had the right place," she mutters.

"Is that it?" he asks quietly. "Or were you surprised? Perhaps disappointed?"

"Of course not," she snaps back, feeling twitchy and anxious and irritable. Knowing why just makes it worse.

"I think you're lying to me," he says smoothly. "There's no need, Lizzie. I think we're on the same page."

Then the heavy warmth of his hand is suddenly on her leg, rubbing lightly. She turns a bit so she can look into his face; he winks at her with a Reddington grin, and she wants to laugh aloud. _A game_ , she thinks, awash with relief. _Lovely_.

She's about to speak when he turns away from her, his hand leaving her leg to reach for his wine glass. Leo's back, pouring wine with an enormous smile, exchanging further pleasantries with Red as he does so.

She manages a smile as Leo turns to her, handing her a glass with a flourish. She takes a polite sip, but gives a genuine smile at the rich flavour that fills her mouth. Leo laughs at her, kisses her hand again, calling her _bella_ and encouraging them to take their time and enjoy themselves.

Then he's gone, and Red is back, shifting a little sideways to face her, one arm around her across the back of the seat, the other reaching across his body to stroke along her leg again, his hand hidden by the crisp white tablecloth.

"I'm quite interested," he says in a casual tone, "in your…past, shall we say."

"What?" she answers stupidly, distracted by the heat of his hand, his breath on the side of her face, the way his fingers press in subtle patterns up and down her thigh. A conversation wasn't exactly what she'd been expecting, but he's always been easy to talk to.

"Tell me," he says. "Tell me about why you let men who didn't satisfy you into your bed."

She is starting warm inside, just easy little tendrils of desire that spread out from the places he puts his fingers.

"I don't…I mean, it's not as if there's been a parade of them," she says, with a roll of her eyes. "When I got to college…I was alone and shy, just this girl from Nebraska. I kept to myself for a long time. When I started dating Nic, he just assumed…He was very sweet."

"Hmm," Red answers, "Sweet. That's something, I suppose."

She laughs a little — she'd thought the same thing at the time, after all.

"And then Tom…was just the same. They just wanted to be nice, I think, to make everything about love? I was the girl next door, naive and starry-eyed. And that girl wants romance — hearts and flowers."

He chuckles, low and rumbling, making her shiver.

"And you never…asked for anything else?"

"At first, I didn't know how," she admits. "And then it seemed like I couldn't. It would have seemed like I'd been lying, you know?"

"I see what you mean," he answers. "But you _were_ lying, weren't you?"

"Not really," she protests. "I cared about Nic; I loved Tom. I wanted them to be happy, too."

"And never mind what you need," he says gently. "How do you live in a marriage like that?"

A great many thoughts fly through her mind; angry ones, sad ones. But he's looking at her with such understanding that she lets herself laugh instead.

"I used to catch him in the shower a lot," she admits, shifting on the bench so his hand slides a little higher. "That always livened things up, at least a little."

It's his turn to laugh — and his touches haven't been gentle or tentative, and they aren't now. He's moving now, hand sliding over her hip to slip under her sweater and rest on her stomach, fingers tickling at her. Heat pools under his palm, her body responding to him easily, anticipating.

"I just love the feel of your skin," he says, almost absently. "Soft and warm and silky. And if your partners have all been sweet and gentle lovers," he continues, "how did you ever know that you wanted something else?"

"Well," she says, a little reluctantly. "I didn't actually say _all_. My first was…different. With Frank, it was always…"

"Frank?" he interrupts, his hand stilling abruptly. She whimpers before she can stop herself, and makes herself meet his eyes. "You told me you made him up."

"I told you I made that particular story up," she retorts, striving not to wriggle against him, not to just turn in her seat, grasp his face in her hands and devour. "But you're right, I lied to you. I didn't want you know everything about me, especially then. It didn't seem…fair."

"I suppose I can see your point," he says, and starts his fingers sliding again, brushing her waistband, teasing over her body up to the bottom of her ribcage, _just_ below the edge of the table.

"Frank was…we took risks all the time — petty stuff, the worst of it not that different than that story. But at 16, it was an incredible rush, rebelling and breaking the law; it felt like we were living on adrenaline. I didn't have sex in a bed until Nic," she adds, laughing again, a bit ruefully this time.

He raises an eyebrow at that.

" _Really_ , Lizzie?" he says, his voice impossibly lower, richer, so it reverberates in her belly right under his hand. " _Do_ tell."

He takes a quick glance around the room — it's getting busier, but no one is paying them any attention, so he leans in and nips along her jaw, quick and wet and sharp. She closes her eyes briefly, drawing in her breath and letting it out slowly, shakily.

"Anywhere and everywhere but," she admits, watching him for a reaction. "Almost always outside — after whatever mischief we'd been up to, pumped on excitement and cheap beer. Up against walls in alleyways, late at night on park benches, on the hood of his car — he had this ancient beater, and I'd always get rust stains on…"

She trails off, watching his eyes, which have gone hot and green and demanding.

"Will we do that?" she asks, just a low murmur. "Up on the shiny hood of your Mercedes?" She shifts a little closer to him, so their faces are just inches apart, his breath short.

"Lizzie," he says, more texture than sound, warningly — it just spurs her on.

"Or maybe," she continues, "maybe I'll take you in the back seat one night; suck you off on your premium leather seat so that every time you sit there, all you'll be able to think about is my mouth on your cock."

His fingers are deftly undoing her pants, showing no movement above the tablecloth, sliding under the waistband of her panties. She gasps as his fingers move easily through her folds; grips the table to keep from moving.

"Are you thinking about it now?" she says, trying to keep her voice level as he strokes, hard; his thumb rasping against her clit and fingers circling her entrance in short little movements that can't be seen. His fingers push and burn and demand, making her breath short, and her muscles clench. She knows she can't react, but it is starting to be next to impossible.

"Can you p–picture it?" It's harder to talk; everything hot and slick and intoxicating. "Will you p–put your hands in my hair and t–tell me what to do? Or will you let me…"

Two fingers drive into her suddenly, and her words choke off; she clutches at his jacket with one hand and the table with the other.

"Please," she says then, giving up teasing, on any kind of a façade. "Red, _please_."

He laughs gently, and picks up his pace, finding the rough spot on her inner wall that makes her moan and arch her hips into his hand.

"Shhh," he murmurs. "Stay still, Lizzie, you don't want to disturb the other diners."

She bites her lip desperately as everything builds inside her in a whirlwind of sensation. His hand is somehow everywhere she needs it at once, driving her closer and closer to a dizzying edge.

"You _do_ paint a picture sweetheart," he says quietly, keeping his voice pitched low enough that even she can barely hear it. "And I am certainly anxious to hear more of your ideas. For now, though…Let yourself feel, let it take you over, just close your eyes and let go."

She does, her eyes fluttering closed as she lets his voice carry her along. He hums delightedly, pushing harder, faster.

"You feel amazing," he continues, the rumble of it rolling through her body. "So hot and wet and soft. I love how you respond to me, how you move like you can't help yourself, how slick you are in my hand. I want to taste you — thick and sweet like honey on my tongue. I want to take you in so many ways, it will take _months_ to explore them all."

And then she's tumbling, swallowing her sounds with a terrible effort, clenching over his fingers in an agony of pleasure. His hand stills, pressing firmly, helping her ease down. She lets her head fall to the side a little so her forehead rests against his arm.

As she starts to even out, he slides free and does her pants back up neatly. Her barely caught breath stops in her throat as he brings his hand up and touches still-wet fingers to his mouth; tastes with flick of his tongue.

"Lovely," he murmurs. "Next time…next time we'll need just a touch more privacy, hm?"

She gathers herself with some effort, straightening in her seat and flashing a smile at him.

"And what about this time?" she asks boldly. "Did you think we were finished here?"

She takes her turn to run a hand over _his_ leg, across his thigh to his cock, which is so hard and thick against her fingers that she raises an eyebrow at him even as she flushes anew with desire.

"It doesn't _seem_ like you think we were finished."

He licks his lips, glancing out at the restaurant, then back to her again.

"Lizzie," he says roughly.

"Hush," she returns coolly, making him smile. "It's my turn."

She is just curling her fingers eagerly when her phone buzzes against the table. She doesn't know whether to laugh or throw it across the room when she sees it's Ressler. She fumbles it into her free hand instead, and manages to clip out her name. She listens briefly, snaps her assent, and hangs up.

"He wants us both at the Post Office," she says, withdrawing her hand with a shrug. "I guess you were right after all — next time."

" _Lizzie_ ," he says again, his voice with a edge to it that she hasn't heard before.

With a quick glance around of her own, she leans in and covers the mark on his neck with her mouth; gives a hot, sucking kiss that ends in a little nip.

"Thanks for…the meal," she says, sliding out of the booth. "I'll see you."

She saunters away, brimming with well-being, good humour, and a lingering heat that makes her feel good. She can just hear him, as she heads for the door.

"And I won't have time for lunch, either," he says, with amused chagrin.

She's laughing as she walks out into the sunlight.


	4. IV: Remote

It takes the entire drive to get himself under control, the tempting images she'd left him with keeping him edgy and uncomfortable. It takes so long that he thinks he might be forced to ask Dembe to go in ahead of him so he can take care of himself.

In the end, it's a mental replay of his last conversation with Glenn that does it, but at least that's a private humiliation. And certainly beats having to face Donald Ressler with a cock that could pound nails.

Here, in the cool underground of the Post Office, with Lizzie's casual indifference on one side, and Ressler's droning pontification on the other, it's much easier. She gives absolutely no hint at all that anything has changed between them, and he supposes that on many levels, nothing has. She still despises him and the chaos he has brought to her life, even as she welcomes him as a lover.

He thinks that the duality suits her.

But he has to be himself, too, so he stands just a little too close to her, making her shuffle her feet in irritation. He smiles inwardly, calculating how long she'll wait before she moves. He almost wishes they could have skipped this particular Blacklister — he can now think of _dozens_ of uses for a little down time — but her next target is rumoured to be the man currently handling the US end of an extremely lucrative arms shipment for him, and so…

"I'm sorry, Reddington, are we boring you?"

Ressler's petulant tones interrupt his train of thought; he beams at the other man in a way he knows is particularly irritating.

"Frankly, you're lucky I didn't start snoring, Donald. Unlike yourself, however, _I_ am capable of doing more than one thing at a time — you and Agent Navabi will be watching Stanton's afternoon client, hoping to a: stop a murder, and b: deduce Stanton's method of manipulation."

Ressler grunts in assent, clearly put out at being shown up.

"Since neither of those require my presence or interference, I believe I'll be off — so much to do, so little time, you know."

He claps his hat smartly back on his head and straightens his jacket.

"Elizabeth?" he says, turning to her with a wide smile. "Share the elevator?"

She looks to Ressler, who shrugs.

"Might as well go home, Keen," he says. "I'll let you know if anything happens."

"All right," she says, her tone mildly disgruntled. "Thanks."

She stalks past, and he swings into line with her, putting his hand on her lower back as they stride along. She jumps, _almost_ imperceptibly, then quickens her pace to pull her body away, like she almost always does, and he only barely escapes laughing aloud.

This game they are playing is proving to be delightfully diverting.

* * *

She nearly bolts out of the door at ground level, taking a deep breath of fresh, Reddington-free air. She hadn't dared open her mouth inside the elevator, afraid of what would come out — every time she glanced his way, he was watching her, with that amused little half-smile on his face that has always infuriated her.

Except now, it makes her want to bite him.

Maybe she will.

But just as she turns to him, her cell goes off, shrilling into the space between them. He watches as she pulls it out of her pocket and checks the screen, grimaces slightly, then slides it away again without answering.

"Wrong number?" he asks absently.

"Not exactly," she says. "Tom…or I guess, Jacob. I just don't have anything left to say, really."

He smiles. "I can't say I'm sorry to hear that."

"I suppose I'll have to talk to him eventually, at least to say goodbye. I just…I wish it was already over."

He touches her cheek gently. "It's your choice, Lizzie. Whatever you decide you want."

"It'll be okay," she says, with a bit more assurance than she really feels. "And it can definitely wait."

"Can I give you a lift home, then? I believe we have some…unfinished business," he says, with a saucy wink.

She grins back. "As interesting as that might prove, my car's here. I'm afraid I'll have to keep owing you one."

He laughs aloud as she walks away, putting a little extra saunter in her step. She feels his eyes on her as she walks, until she turns the corner out of sight. When she knows it's far enough, she wraps her arms around herself and lets herself laugh. After month upon month of tension, stress, and fear, it feels so good to be foolish and fun; to do something just for herself, for no other reason than that she wants it, and it makes her happy.

She's just about to start the car when her phone pings in the cupholder beside her; a text, from Nick's Pizza. With a twitch of her mouth, she picks it up.

 _Meet me at Tosca at 7:30, 1112 F St NW. Your ensemble will arrive at 6. Make sure you wear_ every _piece I send…_

She checks her watch, a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth. It's only 3 — plenty of time to get home, relax a bit and then shower before Red's parcel arrives. She can't think of a time when she wore an "ensemble", and decides that she's looking forward to it.

* * *

A length of deep plum silk, a slim column of a dress that will fit her to exquisite perfection. A small pile of filmy underthings — a half-bra, a miniature thong, a minimal garter — in a matching shade. A roll of barely-there stockings. A pair of silvery, strappy, 3-inch heels. And a little something…special.

He tucks everything carefully away into the box he has ready, and takes a last look. He wonders if she will require instructions, and then decides that she can always ask. After all, a great deal of the fun is in seeing how she will react, what direction she will take.

He's just closing the lid when Dembe steps into the room.

"I'm sorry, Raymond," Dembe says, holding out a phone. "It's Tonio — he says it's urgent."

Red takes the phone, annoyance warring with trepidation within.

"Ciao, Tonio, what can I do for you?"

"Red, I'm sorry, I know you're busy, but–"

"Please, don't worry about it," he soothes, not meaning a word of it. "What's happening?"

"Two of my guys didn't arrive this evening — when I sent a runner by their palazzo…Red, they were dead, throats slit. I'm worried about the transfer."

"I'm truly sorry for the loss of your men. It's almost four in the afternoon here…I can be there first thing in the morning, your time. I'll arrange to reschedule the transfer for tomorrow night. Lock everything up tight, and stay safe, eh?"

The other man's tone is saturated with grateful relief.

"Grazie, Red, grazie. I truly appreciate your attention, yes?"

"It's no problem, Tonio. You know how important this is to me. I'm glad you called." He's surprised he doesn't choke on the words.

"Domani, then, Red — shall I send a car?"

"No need, mio amico. Ciao, Tonio."

"Ciao, Red."

Clicking off, he hands the phone back to Dembe.

"Call Edward," he says briskly. "We need to be wheels up by 4:30. We're going to Venice."

Dembe just nods, and disappears quietly. Red gives the package on his bed a regretful pat. _Another time_ , he thinks, and starts efficiently reassembling his suit as he strides out of the room.

* * *

She is clean and dry, shaved and polished, wearing a soft, short red robe as she dries her hair. She's humming absently, a busy anticipation brewing inside her, wondering just what he has planned for them.

Her phone buzzes on the counter; she almost ignores it, but if it's Ressler… She flicks it on — it isn't Ressler, but Red.

 _I can't adequately express my regrets, Lizzie, but I'm afraid urgent business requires me to reschedule. If you answer your door, however, you'll at least have a lovely meal._

Her system stutters to a quiet halt, and she almost laughs at how disappointed she is.

 _It's only sex, for Pete's sake,_ she tells herself.

Before she has time to dwell on it, though, or even text him back, her doorbell is chiming. She looks down at herself and shrugs — she isn't expecting anyone, after all, and anyone who shows up unexpectedly has to take what they get.

She opens her door to a smiling young man in a crisp white shirt and black pants, holding a neat brown paper bag in his arms.

"Ms Keen?" he asks politely.

"That's right," she answers.

"I'm Jim from Tosca," he says with a smile. "I've brought your dinner." He offers her the bag.

She takes it, bemused. "Thank you, Jim," she says. "I didn't think your restaurant delivered."

"Oh, no, we don't, generally, ma'am. But Mr Kershaw is a…special case."

Recognizing one of Red's well-used aliases, she laughs, in spite of herself. "Jim, you have no idea," she says.

He executes a neat little half-bow and wishes her a good night, then disappears down the hallway.

She leaves the bag in the kitchen while she slips into a tank and worn yoga pants; sends Red a quick text, saying that she hopes his business goes well, and thanking him for the dinner. Then she sets out what appears to be a truly excellent meal, using a heavy white plate and shiny silverware, along with a glass of pinot grigio from a bottle she's been saving.

There's an appetizer, which appears to be made from some type of flower filled with goat cheese and maybe artichoke, with robust little greens and a nutty sweet purée. The main is pork crusted with golden brown herbs, with a sweet, peppery sauce, and an accompanying salad that tastes of licorice and has bits of spicy watermelon and tangy blackberries.

She can't believe she eats it all, but she can't bear to leave anything behind. Despite her full stomach, she has to try the dessert. Crispy, soft, sweet; pear and hazelnuts. She sighs in replete happiness, taking her dishes to the sink. She pours a second glass of wine and takes it and the bottle over to the couch, where she curls up with the book she's reading, and settles in with relative contentment.

She does her best to ignore the piece of herself that's missing him.

She's lost track of both time and how much wine she's had when her phone buzzes again — a call this time, so she leans forward and picks it up, without paying much attention.

"Keen," she says, her voice drowsy and slow. The movement has made her head spin a little.

"Lizzie," comes the answer, warm and gravelly and amused.

 _Red_ , she thinks dizzily. _How lovely._

"Why, thank you, Elizabeth," he says, more laughter behind his words now.

She'd spoken aloud. _Shit_ , she thinks. She glances at the coffee table and notes that she has pretty much finished the bottle of wine, and winces to herself.

"What time is it?" she wonders.

"Honestly, I have no idea," he admits. "I'm somewhere over the Atlantic at the moment — I always lose track when I'm in between zones. I suppose it's getting late; did I wake you?"

"No, it's okay," she replies quickly. "I was just reading. Red, that dinner — thank you. I can't remember when I've had such an amazing meal — honestly, I don't think I ever have."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it, and I truly wish I could have shared it with you." His voice drops and deepens, sending a shudder through her body. "I had such plans for you, sweetheart."

Heat rises inside; from the wine she's had, from his words, his inviting tone.

"I've been ridiculously distracted since lunchtime" he drawls. "Where are you right now?"

"In the living room," she says, a bit hesitantly. "Why?"

"Well," he says slowly, "perhaps you'd be more comfortable in the bedroom."

"No, I'm fi– Oh," she says, flushing as realization hits. "Maybe I would."

She stands up, a little wobbly, and wanders to her bedroom, pleased that she only bumps the wall once on her way there.

She stretches out on her bed, long and lazy, and sighs.

"I'm in bed now," she says. "What…what are you doing?"

"Thinking of you," he answers simply. "The look on your face when you let go. The feel of you against my hand; the taste of you on my fingers."

"Oh…" she murmurs, warmth flooding her again.

"I'm thinking about you, touching me, taking me in — all those pictures you gave me are intoxicating. I have a _very_ vivid imagination, you know."

She manages to laugh, but now she's picturing it too, Red, hot and hard and silken on her tongue, laid bare to her, undone. A small moan escapes her, in spite of herself.

"And I see you do, as well," he murmurs. "Are you imagining it now? Taking my cock in your mouth? Putting me at your mercy?"

"Y–yes," she admits, thrilling to it.

"Does it excite you?" he asks, his voice so very deep. "To think of it? To imagine what I would feel like, taste like? The sounds we would make, together?"

Her tipsiness, combined with his sensual words and the images they conjure, have her winding tighter and tighter, heat licking at the inside of her skin, core starting to ache.

"It does," she says, hunger making her daring. "I want it. I want to taste and touch and pleasure you. Explore every inch of you. See you, lost to me."

"Oh, Lizzie," he says in a low growl, "I want that, too. There's so much I want, it's dizzying. We've only just scratched the surface, sweetheart."

She closes her eyes, breathing fast, half lost already.

"Strip," he says, and she shivers, easily calling up the look on his face the first time he'd said that to her.

"I need to put the phone down," she says, her own voice getting huskier with want.

"Put me on speaker," he suggests. "You're going to need both of your hands, anyway."

Heat flashes through her again, smoky and fierce.

"All right," she says, and does so, putting the phone down carefully by her pillow.

She's edgy enough just from their brief exchange that even the slight brush of her own hands on her skin as she undresses sends quiver after quiver through her. The sheets rustle a bit as she stretches out again, cool against her fevered skin.

"I suppose," she says teasingly, "that you can't really do the same."

He chuckles warmly. "I'm afraid not," he says. "You'll just have to keep using that delectable imagination of yours."

"I…can do that," she replies, not sure if it's true, not sure if she'll be able to think at all for much longer.

"Good," he says, and his voice is so low and deep and rich that he's basically just purring now. "Close your eyes again, sweetheart, and put a hand on your thigh."

She follows his instructions, and shudders when her fingertips trace over her skin.

"That's my hand," he says, "touching you, stroking you; you're soft as silk. Move your thumb," he orders. "Gently, now."

The movement has her nerves tingling, her core growing damp. _Why_ , she wonders, _why is something so simple so intensely erotic?_

"Move your other hand," he says. "Touch your breast. _I'm_ touching it, stroking the underside, following the curve around to take your nipple between my fingers. Is it hard?" His voice is a husky growl, reverberating through the phone and echoing inside her.

"Y–yes," she answers, heat pooling under her hands, at the centre of her. She pulls at her nipple, enjoying the answering tingle of sensation in her clit; she makes a needy little sound.

"That's it," he murmurs encouragingly. "Make it feel good, sweetheart. Imagine my mouth on you, licking, sucking, tasting."

She whimpers, starting to feel desperate, shifting her hand restlessly on her leg. She needs the relief of her own touch; she needs to wait for him to tell her to do it.

"I _love_ the sounds you make," he says. "Are you wet for me, hm?"

"God, _yes_ ," she rasps, not caring that her ache is clear in her voice. " _Red._ "

"Slide your hand up, then," he invites. "Slowly, now. Play a little — get your fingers wet, circle your clit."

The relief she feels when she finally touches herself is almost enough to set her off; she eases back, teases as he directed. She needs to hear him as desperate as she is; needs to know she isn't alone.

"Are you…are you touching yourself, too?" she asks tentatively. "Do you have your cock in your hand, wishing it was mine?"

A low rumble. "I do," he answers. "I'm so hard now, it's agony."

Her body aches, too; a pulsing inside, looking for something to hold onto. She slides a finger in, moving her thumb firmly over her clit, rolling her hips.

"Lick your hand," she says, bolder, searing hot. "Lick it and then slide it over yourself, squeeze just a little, just like it's my mouth, sucking you in."

She can _hear_ him do it, then a murmuring groan. " _Lizzie,_ " he gasps, " _yes_."

More slick sounds; his panting breaths. She revels in it all, his actions and reactions making her wetter, her hands moving more, faster, harder. Her breath is short, as short as his gasps by her ear; she adds a second finger and cries out.

" _Get there,_ " he orders in a raspy command. "I'm coming, come with me, sweetheart, _please_."

The power of it adds the little bit extra that she needs. Pressing with fingers and thumb, other hand dropped to clutch at the sheet beneath her, she comes in a burst of white light behind her closed eyelids, with a long moan echoed by his hoarse shout of release.

She lies still a few moments, limbs gone limp, body damp with sweat. She breathes in and out, focusing on it, trying to regain some control; she can hear him doing the same.

"Lizzie," he says, still panting a little. "Fuck, I've been waiting for that all day."

She laughs a little, as much as she can manage. "I guess…I still owe you one," she says.

His rich laughter mingles with hers. "I don't know if I completely agree," he returns. "But I'm not going to argue, either."

She curls up, hand resting by the phone, exhausted and replete; she sighs in a long breath that ends in a yawn.

"Sleep now, sweetheart," he says quietly, a rumble of comforting sound. "I think I might, too. I should be back in a few days."

"Okay," she murmurs sleepily. "Let me know when you're home."

"Good night, Elizabeth."

As he puts the phone down and heads to the bathroom to clean himself up, he chides himself for the warm glow he feels inside. _When you're home_ , she'd said, and he longs for it to be true.


	5. V: Minuet

**A/N:** Yet another massive break from writing, which…I don't know. Life. So many thanks to everyone who kept reading my stories — it really does mean so much. This chapter has seen so many starts and stops and revisions and rewriting that I'm no longer sure it makes any sense, but hopefully it will provide some enjoyment! Happy post-holiday shipping, y'all!

* * *

David Peterson could not be more unassuming. He is sweating buckets under Ressler's fierce glare and intent questions; nervous, stammering, and with no clue how he'd come to be at the door of a known arms dealer with a revolver in hand. She feels sorry for him as she watches, as he insists over and over again that it's all some horrible mistake.

A text from Aram distracts her from the interrogation, and she walks out to his desk.

"What'd you find?" she asks, leaning slightly over his shoulder.

"A second track," Aram answers, his voice pitched high with excitement. "This audio file she gave Peterson, that he's supposed to listen to in his sleep? It has a second track below it — and this one is _quite_ a bit different."

He hits a few keys and fiddles with something on his desk, and then they both listen as soft, compelling tones lay out a simple directive for murder.

"Another level," she breathes, impressed as much as anything. "Like a… _sub_ -subliminal message."

"The instruction would be layered fairly deep in the subject's unconscious," Aram muses. "They'd never know why they did it. That's kind of…awful. Brilliant, but awful."

"You've got that right," Liz replies, as she stands straight to catch Samar's eye and motion her over. "I think it's time to put an end to this 'therapy' once and for all."

The Post Office comes alive with prep for the arrest, and then Ressler and Samar are gone in a swish of coats and clatter of feet, leaving Liz and Aram behind to smile ruefully at each other and wait. She wonders how much longer she will be able to take being stuck on the edge of things, left out in the cold.

 _Not much longer_ , she thinks in frustration, turning absently in her chair. _Not long at all_.

* * *

He looks with resignation at the dead men that have been the end result of the night's work. The exchange had ultimately taken place successfully, but relations between himself and De Silva are...strained, at best.

"Raymond." Dembe's deep, quiet voice behind him brings him out of his thoughts. "We should go," the other man continues. "Tonio will take care of everything."

Red turns, offering Dembe a wry smile. "You're right," he replies. "And unfortunately, I don't think we'll be heading home any time soon — things are worse than I thought." He rubs a hand over his tired eyes, longing for a moment to stop and rest, knowing he cannot have it. "I wonder…where did I put that invitation from Bianca, do you remember?"

* * *

Liz drags herself out of her car with a sigh. Getting home at a decent time for a few consecutive nights _should_ be a nice change, but her dissatisfaction with her current position rubs her wrong, like a stone in her shoe. There must be a way she can redeem herself, get back on the task force for real…if only she can figure out what it might be.

She's shaken out of her thoughts by the sight of a lean, dark figure lounging beside her apartment door, watching her approach. He looks scruffy and tired, and his eyes are simmering in a way that puts her instantly on edge.

"You changed the locks," the man who was Tom says, straightening as she reaches him. "I could have gone in anyway, you know."

"Should I thank you for just barely respecting my right to privacy?" she snaps back. "What are you doing here, To– _Jacob_?"

"You won't answer my calls, and I need to talk to you," he answers, shifting his face into an appealing expression.

"When someone doesn't answer your calls," she replies, taking out her keys and moving so that he shifts out of the way, "it's generally a hint that they _don't_ want to talk to _you_. Go home, Jacob."

His face darkens again, and he leans in. "Is that any way to treat your husband?" he asks, voice somewhere between teasing and angry. "We have some things to work out."

"I disagree," she returns, sticking her key in the lock and mapping her next few moves in her mind. "You are _not_ my husband, and I owe you nothing."

With a few coolly efficient movements, she unlocks her door then elbows Jacob sharply in the gut as she swings it open and nips inside, using his recovery time to slam, lock, and chain it behind her.

She leans her head against the door, absorbing the vibrations as he pounds on the other side, his voice still raspy from her blow as he shouts her name.

"Go home," she answers, putting every bit of her resigned exhaustion into her tone. "There's nothing for you here."

His reply is lost to her as her phone rings, and she turns away as she answers it with some relief.

"Reddington," she says, loud enough for her voice to carry back through the door, his name a talisman against the dark. "What can I do for you?"

"How's the case?" he asks, sounding…almost casual but not quite, a slight hint of anxiety colouring his voice. "Solved the puzzle yet?"

"Just today, as a matter of fact," she replies, leaning back against the door so she'll be sure to be heard. "Ressler and Samar should be wrapping it up as we speak."

"Wonderful!" he exclaims, his sincere approval cheering her. "As well as rather timely."

"Timely? I didn't realize we were on a deadline."

"Oh, not really. Just, well…it's my turn to ask for a favour," he says, his voice teasing and rich with amusement and a touch of heat. "It isn't as…intriguing as yours, but I shall endeavour to make it entertaining for you."

She laughs aloud, her anger sliding away, a fresh good mood fizzing. "I'm sure I'll find _something_ to amuse me," she answers, tongue firmly in cheek. "What do you need?"

She misses his reply as there is one last, loud thump that makes her jump, as if Jacob has hit or kicked the door. An angry _this isn't over, Liz_ , reverberates through the wood before the sound of his feet echoes away down the hall. She sighs in relief and refocuses on the phone in her hand.

"I'm sorry, Red," she says, "I didn't catch what you said."

"I need you to come and meet me. How do you feel about Venice?"

* * *

Bent over and gasping, he can't quite believe what had just happened. She'd walked away from him, _hurt_ him, locked him out without a backward glance. And now she's dancing to Reddington's tune again; he can hear her on the other side of the door, laughing as if he was the best of friends.

 _She won't get away with ignoring me forever,_ he thinks angrily. He lets go with a vicious kick, releasing the worst of his frustration.

"This isn't over, Liz," he hisses at the closed door, voice poisonous with rage.

He stalks down the hall to elevator, mind racing with thoughts and plans, each one fiercer and angrier than the last.

* * *

All it takes is a plane ride and Reddington's suite in a 5-star hotel, and she is in another world.

She stands in front of a full-length gilded mirror, holding a delicate sweep of silvery grey silk to her breast and second guessing herself. She's gathered her hair in a soft knot at the back of her neck and applied only minimal makeup — the lush simplicity of the gown, with a low, draping back and gathered chiffon halter, speaks for itself. But quite a few of the women she's seen with Red in the past have been more elegant, elaborate, more deliberately attractive. Maybe she's making a mistake…

She'd had ample time alone with her thoughts on the long flight, unable to sleep despite the relative comfort of the first-class seat Reddington had booked for her. What exactly was going on, what did he want from from her, what did _Jacob_ want from her, what would Cooper say, and who did Reddington think he was, making "arrangements" with her boss?

Her racing, conflicted thoughts are interrupted by a soft knock.

"Come in," she responds, watching for him in the mirror without turning around. He smiles at her as he enters, and she eases a little at the clear appreciation in his gaze. He's looking his finest in a sleek black tux. "Could you zip me up?" she asks, a little shyly, the question offering an intimacy that she isn't sure will be welcome.

"My pleasure, Elizabeth," he answers, crossing the room to stand behind her. He places a slim jewelry case on the dresser in front of her, then straightens to meet her gaze in the mirror. "You are…exquisite, sweetheart," he says, placing a warm hand on her back.

The grey suits her, he thinks, bringing out the rose tones in her skin, and sharpening the blue of her eyes. He wonders if she's noticed the deep red that lines the skirt, so that the colour will flash as she walks; a subtle message to those around them.

He admires the bare curve of her spine, and takes a moment to trace it with a lone finger, just so he can watch her shiver.

"I thought we were in a rush," she says with a catch in her voice.

"Oh, we need to be on our way shortly," he replies. "But we've got a moment or two. You know, Lizzie," he continues, bending low to place a kiss on the small of her back, just above the tag of her zipper, "while I have certainly been enjoying the…spontaneous nature of our encounters, there's something to be said for delayed gratification."

He draws the short zipper upward with excruciating slowness, leading with his mouth, speaking in between kisses.

"For taking your time."

His mouth moves against her skin, sending waves of electricity through her.

"For the space to explore."

She gives slightly under his touch, enticing.

"For attention to detail."

He nips at the nape of her neck, wanting a taste of her, entranced by her scent. Her breath has quickened, and she's watching him in the mirror, lips parted, eyes cloudy.

"Red," she says, quiet, but heavy with want.

He loves it when she forgets herself enough to call him by name.

"Here," he says, leaning past her for the jewelry case and opening it. "This will finish you off nicely."

He drapes the fine white gold chain around her neck gently and clasps it deftly, then lets his hands rest on her naked shoulders and admires the effect.

"Perfect," he murmurs, pleased with the stark contrast of the deep red stone against her creamy skin.

She can't help but gape a little. "Red, please tell me this isn't real," she says, a bit panicky at the very thought.

"Of course it is," he says easily. "What else could possibly do you justice?" Without giving her time to answer, he slips an arm around her waist and turns her toward the door. "Shall we, sweetheart?"

* * *

She supposes that boating along a Venice canal is one of the world's most romantic scenes — it's just making her fidget. Red's talking to her, explaining the situation, but it's just a rumbling hum. She wonders why she isn't paying any particular attention — something about her pardon and the FBI; appearances and a lack of faith — but she can't take it in.

"Where's Dembe?" she asks, interrupting gracelessly.

"Dembe has other business tonight," Red answers, looking at her sharply. "Don't worry about it."

She narrows her eyes, but can tell from the set of his jaw that he won't say anything more. She settles back in her seat, fingers tapping on her knee.

"Stop thinking," he chides teasingly. "Enjoy the night out, can't you? We're here," he continues, gesturing ahead with a small flourish. "Gallerie dell'Accademia."

The white building shines under spotlights, almost glowing in the twilight sky. Others are arriving and being ushered through the open doors. The boatman helps Red step out, then turns back to her — but Red waves him away, his arm effortlessly bringing her to land with the solid strength he keeps hidden under his civilized veneer.

She takes his arm willingly enough and they stroll to the door, Red gaining them entry with a flash of a crisp white card. They wind up in a large gallery, people milling, chatting, dancing under the auspices of a wealth of fine art. It's all so innocuous she's not sure what's going on.

"Red, why are we here?"

"As I said earlier," he answers drily, with a sidelong look of amusement. "It's all a show, sweetheart. These people might be dressed in their finest, but anyone I know, I know through…business."

Shock chills her, and she stops walking. He turns back to look at her as her hand slips away, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Reddington," she hisses angrily, "are these people _all_ _criminals_?"

"Of course," he says smoothly. "Though I'm sure many would object to that particular label. Come, Lizzie, forget your worries and dance with me."

And he curves an arm around her and sweeps her into a formal step that makes her stumble.

" _Reddington_ ," she hisses again, this time embarrassed and awkward.

"Stop trying to lead, and you'll be fine," he says, his eyes twinkling at her. "Listen to the music — it's a minuet, a three-step. Just move with me."

He pushes gently with his body as he speaks, coaxing her to relax and follow his lead, to let herself be steered through the simple steps. It's freeing, somehow, and she finds herself gliding along as if she's been doing it all her life, Reddington's arm around her waist, one hand warm on her back and the other firm in hers.

Somehow, despite the formality of the dance, they come closer and closer as they move through the space. She's close enough now to feel his breath against her cheek; his hips shifting her gently along, pressing against her; his hand only _just_ above the line of her dress; the strong muscle of his thigh between hers. She can feel her body rising to his in a quiet hum, and wonders what they look like together.

She knows she's smiling, that she's enjoying herself, that she can't help it. _Just this one time_ , she tells herself. She can just enjoy this one evening without guilt, can't she?

As the strains of music shift and change, Red draws back a little, looking at her with an intentness that pierces.

"Lizzie," he begins, but is cut short by a delighted call.

"Raymond!"

They are intercepted by a small woman in a brilliant emerald gown, her dark hair a riot of curls and her face vivacious and lively. Red drops Liz' arm to take the woman's outstretched hands.

"Bianca, how lovely," he says, entire demeanour instantly at his most charming. "What a gorgeous affair."

"I'm _so_ glad you decided to accept my invitation," Bianca gushes with a beaming smile. "I wasn't sure if we would see you."

"I wouldn't miss it," he replies warmly.

"And who is this with you, Raymond?"

Bianca's eyes glitter with fun, and his own smile broadens in return. He'd been right — this was the ideal event for his purposes.

"Ah, of course," he says, reaching for Liz' hand and drawing her forward. "This is my good friend, Elizabeth. Elizabeth, our hostess, Bianca."

Her hand tightens in his when she hears her real name, but she shows no outward sign, shaking hands gracefully with Bianca and complimenting the decor. He didn't even have to emphasize "friend", he muses — anyone who's seen them dancing will draw the obvious conclusion. He is, in fact, having trouble not drawing it himself.

He watches her chat politely with Bianca, coolly sidestepping the other woman's pointed questions. The avoidance will only make Bianca more sure that he and Elizabeth are lovers, and she won't be able to resist gossiping about to it to anyone who will listen.

He's about to step in with a well-placed innuendo when Liz cocks her head slightly to hear Bianca better, and he is utterly distracted by the curve of her neck. He knows the skin there now, how it is silky to the touch, how it always tastes faintly of her vanilla soap. How sensitive she is just there above her shoulder, how the lightest touch of his tongue in the right spot makes her nipples peak.

Already aroused by their dance, he wants her, suddenly and urgently; wants to touch and taste and see her give in to pleasure. He draws her into his side with a beaming smile for their hostess.

"I'm so glad you two are hitting it off," he says smoothly, "but I'd love to show Elizabeth a bit more of the Gallerie before dinner. It's all right, isn't it, Bianca?"

"Technically, the rest of the building is closed to visitors," she replies with a twinkling look. "But I'm sure you won't cause any trouble, will you, Raymond?"

"Heavens, no," he declares with a wink, and sweeps Lizzie away, leaving Bianca laughing behind them.

* * *

Instead of a leisurely stroll through the museum rooms, she is being towed through the main hallway, then down a dim corridor quite clearly marked "Staff Only".

"Red," she whispers, glancing around nervously, but before she can continue, he's turned sharply and put his mouth to hers, swallowing her words in a hungry gulp.

All that's left to her is the language of her senses: the sheer _heat_ of him — not just his lips, but his hands on her face; his body, burning into hers as he presses her into the wall. The dull thud of his shoe and a quiet metallic click; the slight rasp of his fingers sliding into the curls at her neck; the susurrus of their mingling breath. A familiar sharpness on her tongue, the tang of toothpaste, the salt that lives in skin. The spice of his cologne, clean like cinnamon; the faint chemical scent of dry cleaning; just a hint of oil paint on the air.

His presence surrounds her, engulfs her — she's dizzy with the flood of feeling. Is this true sensuality, then, this drowning of every sense, the obliteration of everything but the _other_? Her heart beats a furious tempo in her chest as he shifts, moving a hand so he can trace the line of her throat with soft kisses. Little systemic jolts shake her as he nips her carotid, her collarbone, the upper swell of her breast.

He's turning them now, a different type of dance entirely, walking her along until her rear and the backs of her thighs bump up against something. The loss of his mouth as he moves to lift her feels like a tragedy, the absence of his heat like a blow as he shifts away.

But then his hands are under the flow of her dress, quick and sure, his thumbs rubbing along her hip bones. He slides her panties off in a whisper of fabric, her shoes falling away with a sharp clatter.

Doubts, wordless protests, they fall away under the intoxicating tracery of his fingers, running up her legs, smooth, teasing, enticing. His mouth follows after, and even thought dies away, drowning in the prickling rush of desire.

She's trembling under his touch, every bit of her soft and pliable against his mouth. He tastes her instep, the line of her calf, the curve of her knee, and has her gasping. She tenses as he moves closer and closer to the core of her, her body arching toward him, her heels pressing into his back. She's wet for him already, he knows it even if he can't quite see, and he cannot wait any longer.

His mouth devours, demands, delights — she's swept up the moment his tongue touches her. When he takes her clit, sucking and wet, she bites her lip hard enough to taste blood. She is rootless in passion; seeks an anchor, but his shorn head offers no purchase, his shoulders too far to grasp. She twists her fingers into the silk of her gown instead, and lets herself be taken.

She is everything he thought she would be, and more, a veritable feast. He is driven to take and take, plying his mouth like a weapon. He turns his face to the creamy silk of her thigh and puts his teeth to her, a sharp, piercing nip, then a hard wet pull with his mouth that will certainly leave a bruise.

A small choked sound, then nothing but her rapid breaths as he shifts his attention back to her core — long licks that make her quiver; a scrape of teeth that makes her push into his mouth; a dip of his tongue inside her so her whole body tightens around him.

She's moving against him now, short thrusts of her hips that she can't help but make, every nerve stretched and tingling. He seems to know what she needs by instinct, playing her body to perfection, winding her tighter and tighter with tongue and mouth and hands until she finally snaps in an undulating wave of pleasure that blackens her vision and makes her dizzy.

She lays limp, recovering her breath in deep, quiet draws. His body covers hers once more, briefly, lips against hers, soft and warm and wet. She catches at his jacket as he starts to shift away again.

"Red," she says, husky with everything left unuttered, "I want you."

He laughs, warm and low. "Trust me, Lizzie, the feeling is entirely mutual."

She tugs at him fruitlessly. "Then come back here," she says, "come back here and fuck me."

On an indrawn breath, he's back with a searing kiss, hot and hard; no gentleness left. Then, in a few deft movements, he is up and pulling her to her feet, tucking her curls back tidily, putting her skirts to rights, and handing back her shoes.

"Later," he rumbles, "you'll give me the night with you."

It isn't a question, or even a suggestion — just one of his implacable statements that normally put her back up. Now, she just nods, her mind whirling with possibilities as he takes her hand and guides her back into the maze of corridors.

"I believe," he says as they walk toward the gallery, "that we have time for another dance before dinner."


	6. VI: Indulgence, Part I

She lets her fingers intertwine with his as they walk — what can it hurt, at this point? If it makes her happy, does it matter why? She shakes her head a little, _stop thinking so much_ , and then she slows, certain she's forgotten…well.

"Red," she says, with a tug on his hand.

He squeezes her hand in return, his low laugh interrupting her. "Not to worry, Lizzie," he says cheerfully, "I've got them, safe and sound." And he pats his pocket with their joined hands.

She flushes red, but doesn't say anything; she doesn't really care, anyway. She wonders whose office they were just in, and then determinedly decides not to care about that either.

He wants the night? Well, she wants it too, just one night after a year of loss and stress, fear and pain. One night, to let go, to let herself just _be_.

"And is that," she says, making it pointed, "what you call delayed gratification?"

He sweeps her into the open gallery and into a gliding dance, his face alight with a wicked grin. "Oh, Lizzie," he replies, pulling her close so that she can feel the hard press of him. "That was just…a taste."

"Please tell me that wasn't a pun."

He raises their still-clasped hands and presses his lips to her knuckles, a swift flick of tongue. "Maybe," he says, "but it's also true."

The slow heat of anticipation kindles inside her, and she gives in to it, tucking herself further into his body and letting him move them both across the floor. The fine wool of his tuxedo jacket scratches ever so lightly, raising shivers of pleasure across her skin. They fit well together, and there's pleasure in that, too.

In pressing her hot cheek to his; breathing in the spicy scent of his neck.

In his arms, strong around her in just the right place on the curve of her waist.

In shifting her hips against his, a consistent brushing, to tease them both.

In the tickle of his breath in her ear, across her bare shoulder.

In letting desire wash over her, through her, to carry her through the rest of the evening.

* * *

By the time they are into the main course, he is certain that she has decided to drive him mad. A madness sublime, to be sure, but also increasingly difficult to manage.

 _She's subtle about it, too, the minx_ , he thinks, with some admiration. Never a hand too long under the table or behind their backs. Her pretty face either animated in discussion or politely attentive. Her voice always warm and interested, discussing the broader implications of the falling Euro without the slightest indication her hand is tracing his flies.

Or under his waistband beneath his jacket, teasing at his skin.

Or carefully tapping out what he is sure is _Chopsticks_ on his inner thigh, just so she can graze him ever so lightly and then dance away.

Her fingers are on him again, one stroke, another, even as she continues to talk commerce with Allen across the table. Then her cool hand is wrapping firmly around his cock, and he goes blind and deaf for choking moment.

He'd pay good money to know how she got his zipper open without a sound.

He cannot imagine what he will do if she makes him spend himself here at the table. He gives up all attempts at keeping up with the conversation and lets his mind drift on the pleasure of it. Lets himself plan the night ahead. Lets the simple pleasure of the prickling heat overwhelm him.

A hard press of her hand brings him back with a start, and he looks into blue eyes bright with mischief.

"Red," she says, and her tone makes it clear she's repeating herself, "dance with me?"

He raises a eyebrow at her, and then her hand is gone, innocently tucking a stray curl behind her ear as she smiles back.

He makes a point of never losing at this game.

"Elizabeth," using her name with deliberation, "it would be my absolute pleasure."

He makes a quick adjustment and stands, holding out one hand in his most gentlemanly manner, his napkin dangling strategically from his other hand. In a few smooth movements, they are walking to the dance floor, his arm around her; he walks tucked in behind her like the perfect squire.

The camouflage it provides is just a handy coincidence.

He turns her easily, able to tuck himself away and right his clothing under the cover of her body and the wave of the music playing. He pulls her closer, the soft give of her a slight comfort to his aching cock; the silk of her back hot to the touch.

She offers a sly grin, and leans in, pressing her cheek to his. It feels…he isn't sure, can't quite think, then her voice is in his ear, and his mind shuts down again.

"You do remember that I'm naked now, under this dress?"

The feeling that shudders through him is now is more raw, a primitive surge. He turns slightly so that he can nip at her neck in just the right spot, hard and wet; a bite, a kiss, both. She tenses under his hands; _Red_ , a fierce hiss — but she isn't even half as horrified as she had been earlier.

"They all already think it," he murmurs, letting his lips brush against her with each word. "Do you really care?"

She can't answer that, because she knows that she _should_ care, that the Liz she tries so hard to be would be in a filthy snit by now…but she doesn't care. Not even a little.

Instead, she just says, "How soon can we leave?"

* * *

They are ridiculously polite on the boat back to the hotel, exchanging meaningless pleasantries about the evening, the Gallerie, the company. She takes his arm as they walk into the hotel, across the lobby, into the elevator. They stand, side by side in the small space, saying nothing.

Waiting.

He sweeps her down the hall to the suite; opens the door with a quick swipe; gestures inward with a remote smile. She walks in ahead of him noiselessly, heart beating fast.

The door is still gliding shut as they fall on one another in a frantic tangle of limbs, mouths hot and hungry.

She's only just managed to tug his jacket off when he pins her to the wall, his hands rough and sure. Her dress is somehow already a twist around her waist, and he hauls her up, her legs hooking eagerly over his hips. He manages, somehow, to run a finger over her, dipping within — and lets out an abbreviated curse when he feels how wet she already is. He is inside her before she really has time to think.

None of their encounters thus far have been gentle, but this, this is something else entirely. There's a dark thrill in the way that his need to be with her, in her, seems to have overtaken his sensibilities.

He is relentless, hips driving, pushing her into the decorative plaster of the wall. His hands in her hair, scattering pins; his mouth burning a path down her neck to her breast. Then, then his mouth suckles hard and his fingers are on her clit, and the wave of agonizing pleasure that swamps her leaves her unable to do anything but cling to him.

When awareness comes back, he's walking with her, carrying her, still thick and ready inside her. Her hands are locked around his neck, heels hooked together under his ass, so the movement of his steps causes little ripples of sensation. She can feel the hard strength of him — in his arms holding her to him; in his thighs, stalking through the suite.

Still, neither of them have spoken; the air has only been disturbed only by their harsh breaths, the thump of bodies, the slick sounds of sex. She searches her mind for words, but before she can come up with any, he's stopped, is sliding out of her and using his hands to urge her legs down.

She stands, a little wobbly, as he strips off her dress, and then stills, just looking at her. She looks down briefly — she's nude now, but for her silvery heels and the gleaming red stone he'd fastened around her neck. Feeling a little foolish, she shifts her weight to kick off her shoes, but stops and looks up when his hands clamp around her arms.

"Don't," he says, just a dark growl. His eyes are near black as they bore into hers. "Don't move. You're…absolutely exquisite. The most beautiful creature I have ever seen."

She flushes, warmth accelerating to a pleasing heat. She reaches out — he's still fully clothed, if somewhat disheveled, his pants open and loose, but his tie still perfect. She reaches out, needing to see him, to touch, to gain equilibrium.

She starts to carefully undo him — tie loosened, discarded; shirt buttons slipped open one by one. She peels him out of layers of clothing as his breaths quicken, taking even socks and shoes herself, until he's left in nothing but his black boxer briefs, his cock jutting out proudly.

It should be ridiculous, but it isn't.

She puts a hand on his chest, lets it trail down his torso, reveling in it, in the feel of him. Smooth skin, slightly crisp curls of hair, a heat that threatens to burn.

It galvanizes him; just as her questing fingers graze the waistband of his shorts, his hands are on her shoulders with a bruising grip, yanking her to him so he can fasten his mouth to hers. A moan rips out of him as their bodies come flush together; as his still-wet cock presses into her abdomen.

Then he's moving again, spinning her around and bending her with his hands so that her breasts meet the plush blanket on the bed. She catches a flash of their movement in the mirror that she'd forgotten; wishes she could have seen more. His body disappears for a brief moment, and then thought is lost to her again as his hands spread her apart and he plunges into her with a guttural moan.

* * *

He feels like a man possessed.

He has had a rich and varied life, and thinks of himself as a fairly polished lover — gentle or not, as the situation requires, adaptable and generous — but always, _always_ , with a firm eye to the pleasure and satisfaction of both parties.

And yet here he is, rutting like an animal, lost to the demands of a searing passion.

He needs to stop, slow down, regain control. Give her more, ply his numerable skills, watch her lovely face tighten in ecstasy.

He cannot stop.

He wants to hear her scream.

She hasn't spoken since they left the Gallerie, but breathy moans escape her now, each time he thrusts. The picture she makes… Her lean body bent in front of him, heels lengthening her legs so her ass perches high. The dark spill of her hair against the rich blue blanket; her fingers, clutched for purchase, white-knuckled. The enticement of the long curve of her back stretched out before him.

He bends over to taste, mouth roaming up and down her spine as if testing for flavour. The give of her skin under his lips, teeth, is too much, he fleetingly worries he might damage this creamy silk, and draws back.

He watches himself drive in and out, for long, heady minutes, until he can hardly bear the suffocating pleasure of it.

He needs to see her face.

He twists one hand into her hair at the nape of her neck and pulls, just shy of too hard, so she pushes up on trembling arms, so her body arches up and back to curve toward his.

The change in angle, the edge of pain it brings, makes her cry out; he looks over her shoulder at the long mirror on the other side of the bed and almost spends then and there.

But her eyes are shut tight, and that just won't do.

"Look," he rasps, a hoarse demand. "Open your eyes and _look_ at us."

Her eyelids flutter, then open and wide, dark blue eyes stare into his in the gleaming glass. Her mouth is open, breathing fast and hard, her lips swollen and red and slick. Her body a taut bow; breasts moving in time with his thrusts.

"Oh god," she chokes out, "we look…I can't… _Red_."

And then they are both moving, a different dance now, and he is utterly consumed.

He may never stop.

* * *

She's never watched herself before; never viewed the act itself like she is now.

It's unspeakably erotic.

She's suddenly glad for the privacy of the suite. Grateful for the slide of skin, damp with sweat, the full nudity feeling risky and forbidden in its rarity. Enjoying the chance to move as she pleases, to make noise if she needs to, to feel everything completely.

Most of all, to experience _this_ — Reddington lost to the physical, all his façades torn away, graceless and devouring in his lust. The harsh thrusts of his cock inside her, the angle where their bodies meet hovering on the threshold of pain. The clench of his fist in her hair, pulling, almost too hard, but not quite. His free hand roaming her body restlessly — a stroke of the palm along her waist, a scrape of nails across her stomach, a roll of a nipple between long fingers.

Everything is teetering on the edge between just enough and too much, and the pressure is building, and her mind shuts down. There's nothing but him, this, them together, and her body is tightening deliciously and _oh_.

His voice now, low and rough and wild, _that's it, sweetheart_ and _god, how you feel_ and _now, please, now_.

Everything inside and out coils tight and she struggles to push back against him, to feel as much of his skin against hers as possible.

For more, just… _more_.

"More," she manages, somehow. " _More_ , Red…"

There is a slight pause, a breath and no more, when his fingers tighten in her hair, over her breast, and then.

Then.

Then he starts to _move_ , slamming into her, a madness of sensation. It's overwhelming, a sweet agony, and he's so deep inside her it seems impossible. There's nothing left to her but a gasping scream as her body clenches, releases, crumbles in the blinding flash of an orgasm that smashes through her like a tidal wave.

* * *

He watches her fall apart, entranced — she's impossibly beautiful and her cry of gratification fills him with raw satisfaction.

It's a sensory overload. The vision of beauty, real and reflected; her voice on the air, shattered; the hot depths of her, pulsing around him like a heartbeat. He trembles with the need for release, but he isn't ready, he wants _more_. If it were physically possible, he really would take the night.

As it is, he grits his teeth, and slips out of her; grips his cock firmly at the base. Breathes deep and even; puts his other hand on her back, soothing both of them.

Once he has control of himself, he finds the strength to lift her onto the bed, letting her shoes fall away this time with a twinge of regret. She lies limp, her limbs loose and relaxed, her face smooth and quiet. The stark contrast of her pale skin against the night blue blanket is striking, heats him all over again.

As if he needs it.

As if he needs anything more than the scent of her. Than the sound of her laugh. Than the flash of her neck.

Her eyes flutter as he lowers onto her; she opens to his kiss with a sigh of welcome. He takes the time, now, to explore the lush possibilities of her body, to touch and taste each piece of her. She undulates lazily under his ministrations, soft murmurs of pleasure following his path.

She touches in turn, where and when she can. Tracing the lines of his bones with hot fingers; licking the sweat from his neck with a delicate sweep; smoothing over his hair with the rub of a palm.

When he can't wait anymore, when he is dizzy with her again, desperate, he slips inside her, slow and easy. She wraps herself around him, arms and legs fastening him to her. They move in tandem, well matched now, whispers of encouragement goading him on.

 _Faster_ , she says, and _you feel so good, so good_ and _come for me, Red_.

"You first," he says, pushing up a little to increase the pressure.

Dazed eyes look into his with some surprise. "I can't possibly, not again. It's okay, Red, just…"

He stops her with a long, deep kiss, and sets about proving her wrong with every skill he possesses.

He watches her face break, as she tightens her grip on him and her nails dig in. She arches up when he works a hand between them to rub against her clit, crying out in shock and pleasure.

When she's coming for him again with sobbing breaths and shaking limbs, he lets go, finally. His orgasm spirals through him, out of him, in long, rolling waves.

He rests in the cradle of her, hollowed out by passion. His forehead pressed against her shoulder; her cheek soft against his head.

"I should go," she murmurs, "to the other room."

"Don't be silly," he replies on a jaw-cracking yawn. "Besides, the night's not over yet."

She snorts a soft laugh at that; shifting with him until they are under the soft sheets. He lays back, peacefully exhausted; she curls beside him at a reserved distance. He dims the lights using the switch by the bed and lets out a long sigh of contentment.

She's already asleep as he settles himself, and he has a sudden urge to cuddle her close, as if she might disappear without his touch as an anchor. Inwardly laughing at himself, he presses his lips to her hair instead, for comfort.

And slips away, into sleep.


	7. VII: Indulgence, Part II

He wakes, without clearly knowing why. He is warm, comfortable, and his sleep, for an absolute wonder, has been dreamless. He blinks at the ceiling for a few long moments, evaluating the state of his mind, the pleasant ache in his bones, the solid presence beside him…a sudden need. With a philosophical shrug, he rolls up and out of bed quietly, and slips into the bathroom.

When he returns to the bedroom, a soft cry gives him the answer to his wakefulness.

He looks at her, still curled up facing the spot he'd just vacated, frowning in her sleep, fist clenched in the sheet. She is a restless sleeper, he recalls, and has her own set of nightmares. He remembers something else from their time together, running and hiding and seeking answers.

He wonders…

He starts around the bed, bare footfalls making no sound on the plush carpet. When he's at the other side, she turns with a frustrated sort of sigh, orienting herself to him. Just as she had in the past, every time they'd shared a resting space. Like a flower to the sun, he'd thought back then, she turns her face to safety.

There's a curious warmth to the thought that she might still find a safe place in him.

She murmurs now, her legs moving a little.

"No," she pleads suddenly, her voice in slumber small and afraid. "Don't, please."

Flooded with sympathy, he sits on the bed, and reaches out, smoothing her hair back, rubbing a thumb softly over her cheekbone. She sighs, and settles, the frown easing from her face, and the pleasure he feels in comforting her is all out of proportion.

He removes his hand and just sits, contemplating her. This Elizabeth, this mercurial mystery of a woman.

He wants to solve the puzzle of her.

She whimpers again, brow re-creasing, so he touches her cheek again, lightly. Another sigh, a soft flutter. When he flattens his palm gently on her face, her whole body eases; when he leans over and presses a kiss to her lips, she smiles reflexively in response.

Something stirs deep inside him, something that has been quiet for so long that he can't quite name it.

 _Careful_ , his thoughts rush in, drowning the flutter of feeling, _careful now_.

He blinks and moves his gaze over the length of her, distracting himself. The linens had shifted when she rolled over, revealing the top of her shoulder, a hint of creamy breast. Simple lust returns in a warm and welcome rush, urging him to touch, to taste, to take.

He peels the sheet and blanket back a little further, baring the rosy nipples, the curve of her waist. He runs a hand along her body, from the base of her neck down to her hip. She shivers in response; still asleep, he thinks, but closer, closer to the surface.

He leans in and kisses her again, full on the lips, soft and long and warm. It's only a moment before she's kissing him back, arms sliding lazily around him, voice giving a husky little murmur of welcome.

He applies himself firmly to pleasure, shutting away his treacherous emotions.

* * *

She dreams of Tom, again.

His face suddenly the face of a stranger as his hands lash out to hit her, again and again.

Poisonous words of hate and betrayal flying between them.

The stench of their mingled blood; the crack and smash of the furniture they'd chosen together.

Fighting, somehow, when even breathing is a struggle through the anger and the choking grief.

The terror of the absolute certainty that he will kill her.

Then he's gone, the cruelty of his mocking laughter hovering in the air around her. She struggles to hold back the sobs that want to tear free, releasing the agony of mind and body in a maelstrom of sound and fury.

A light touch on her shoulder makes her start and wheel around, ready to fight, always ready.

But it's Reddington, this time, _Red_ , with a grin on his face and a gleam in his eye that she has only recently become acquainted with. The angry tension in her loosens almost instantly.

She raises an eyebrow at him, lips quirking in response. The reek of blood and pain is gone, the air around them now scented faintly with lavender and thyme, their surroundings a soft blur of clean white. He steps close, takes her face in his hands, and kisses her, sweet and hot, and she welcomes it.

She gives herself over to the sensations he brings, hoping for the smouldering warmth of hunger that can clear away the icy chill of fear.

She isn't sure when, exactly, she moves from dream to reality; is only sure that reality is _more_. More intense, more arousing, more of…everything. Red, his arm braced behind her on the bed, his other hand curved around her neck. His mouth on hers, skillful, demanding. The soft sheet under her, silky against her skin. Her own arms, somehow already wrapped around him.

"Hello," she says, on a breath. "Is it morning already?"

"Not by half," he says, his sleep-roughened voice a study in satisfaction. "We've got plenty of night left, Lizzie."

More heat, his words and his tone coiling around her seductively. But cobwebby bits of her dream cling unpleasantly, little flecks of ice in her soul; ghostly imprints of violence linger on her flesh, echoing where they had once been real.

She wants these greasy remnants gone, erased; she tightens her arms, pulls him closer, seeking the shelter of his big warm body.

"Touch me," she says, more than eager, "please, touch me, Red. I want to feel your hands on me, _everywhere_."

He responds with alacrity, her name an aching moan into her skin. He paints her with his need, deft fingers and clever mouth wiping away everything but him. Her body wakens easily under his touch, the last of the ice melting away. She winds herself around him, willfully forgetting, meeting him touch for touch, kiss for kiss.

She has bewitched him, he thinks hazily, as he samples the inner crease of her elbow. He's lost to her, to the siren call of her lush, eager body. He reaches, finds her slick already and waiting for him. _Take your time,_ the skilled seducer prompts, but he's already pushing into her, one hand lifting her hip to meet him, the other tangling in her hair.

She can't believe she was ever cold, or that she ever will be again. The feel of him, that long slide of the most intimate skin against skin — it overwhelms. The slight sting of soreness comes and goes in a flash as he starts to move within her.

 _Beautiful,_ he whispers into her mouth, _so beautiful._

The marks on her skin are real this time, but she welcomes them, every point of contact like a small flame. The rasp of his breath, the urgency of his thrusts, the utterly honest way he gives himself over to the act — it's all terribly intoxicating. She feels like one encompassing raw nerve, each sensation magnified until she can barely stand the intensity.

Her limbs have a surprising strength as they pull him to her; the arch of her neck under his lips a delicacy of beauty. Her inner walls clutch at him in a way that has him grasping at control, the pleasure of it maddening. The physical connection between them is intense and overpowering, an ache that might never be eased.

She's close, so close, and then it's gone, slipped away as they move together in a frenetic tangle. Again and again, the release she needs glimmers nearby and then disappears from her grasp. His movements are getting shorter; he's given up on everything but the back-and-forth of hips, his body shuddering over hers, his cheek pressed to her hair.

She struggles against him now; away, closer, even she doesn't know. She wants something that she cannot name, with a desperation that makes her dig her nails into his back and keen against his skin.

"What is it, sweetheart?" he murmurs back, the vibrations of his voice against her ear shooting sparks through her system. "What do you need?"

"I don't know," she manages, almost a wail, "I don't know."

She turns to find the scar on his neck with her mouth, her tongue; _her mark_ , a visual reminder of her claim on him. Yearning, frantic, she bites down fiercely, his carotid strong between her teeth, his life beating in her grip.

He grunts in startled response, flexing his hips hard, a reflex of pleasure and pain strong enough to shift her body up the bed. He knows her now, he thinks, and jerks his head a little to loosen her teeth. She lets go reluctantly, licking at the spot before he moves.

One by one, he grasps her roaming hands, pinning them on either side of her head by the wrists. His hammering rhythm never falters as he uses his mouth on her with devastating effect.

Imprisoned beneath him, she can barely move in response to his assault of lips and tongue and teeth. Without the outlet of response, every sensation becomes concentrated, amplifying more and more with each kiss, each tease, each sucking nip. Her own arteries, along her collarbone, the soft valley between her breasts. The shockingly sensitive outer curve of her underarm, the tender divot behind each ear.

He feasts on her body in a completely abandoned way that thrills her. She can only absorb each shock of feeling, letting her orgasm build and build until she finally comes, in a screaming rush that leaves her limp and gasping and weak. He follows after her, the hot wet pulse around his cock leaving him no other option.

He collapses into the now-soft cradle of her body, vision gone black and starless, and just tries to keep breathing. He's forgotten even his most instinctual graces, she thinks, as the weight of him presses her into the mattress. It's nothing she can't bear, for now, and she relishes the utter lack of his polished control; his vulnerability in this moment.

They breathe together quietly, undone, finding humanity again. As soon as he can, he rolls to his side, pulling her with him and keeping her close. He relishes the feel of her snug against him, limp and satiated, warm and soft. Her breath against his chest, the press of her dewy skin — above all, the utter trust she gives him — it all combines to have him stirring again, still mostly inside her. _God_ , he thinks, astonished and bemused, _will it never stop?_ This furious lust was like nothing he'd ever felt before.

She feels him move lightly within her, and lets out a muffled little groaning laugh.

"Again?" she says, pulling back to look at him, her expression an odd mix of disbelief and willingness.

He laughs back, gives her a resounding kiss. "I'm quite sure I couldn't manage it just yet," he admits, regret mixing with amusement in his voice. "No matter what _he_ thinks."

Her eyes widen a bit as she struggles not to laugh. " _He?"_ she sputters. "Does 'he' have a name? L-Little Red?"

And then she can't hold it in anymore, and dissolves in mirth, burying her face in his chest again. He looks down at her shaking head, body, and starts to laugh with her.

"I'll have to remember that," he says. "I quite like it."

They lie curled together for a minute, two or three — he has no real interest in keeping track. He is starting to drop away when she plants a small kiss over his heart, then rolls away onto her back, wincing as he slips the rest of the way out of her.

"You do know how to show a girl a good time," she says, grinning.

"I'm so glad to have provided," he replies, reaching over to curl an arm around her waist. "Come back here, and go to sleep."

"Ha," she says cheerfully. "Not a chance, pal. This bed is a _mess_ , and I'm all…sticky." She pulls gently out of his grasp and rolls out of bed. "I'm going to shower, and sleep in the other room. You," she continues, shooting a sly glance over her shoulder at him, "can do what you like."

She saunters away, gloriously nude, leaving him gaping behind her in a damp snarl of sheets.

* * *

It doesn't take him long to follow her — he can't resist, all vestiges of anything even remotely resembling common sense long gone. Just the beginning of the thought of her, sleek and wet, is enough to have him halfway across the room.

The bath is beginning to fill with steam when he enters, covering her in tantalizing bits. It's ridiculously enticing, and he cracks the shower door only as much as necessary to slide through.

He just looks, for a few long moments. The way the curve of her neck gleams as she tips her head back, her hands working through the knots in her hair. The trail of water flowing over her breasts, taut with the pull of her body's arch. The pink flush of her skin in the heat, an enticing blush of colour he can follow all the way down to the vee of her legs.

 _Not yet, indeed,_ he thinks wryly. He's ready now; all he needs is the merest glimpse of her to harden and yearn.

He has to touch her; steps close and bends his head to lick water from her throat. A quick shudder runs through her, then her lips are on his, hot and wet. He puts his hands on her hips and tugs, stepping back carefully so that their heads are free of the spray.

She falters then, as their bodies touch, and draws back. Her eyes downcast, she crosses her arms over her chest.

"Lizzie?" he questions, curious. She's never been the least bit inhibited with him before.

"I'm sorry," she says unhappily. "I thought…I wanted you to follow me, I did. I thought I could…well. Do you remember what I told you? That Tom and I…"

"Lizzie." He interrupts, wanting nothing less than to hear about the how and where she'd let that lying bastard put his hands on her. "Do you remember what _I_ told _you?"_

She meets his eyes now, wary, questioning. His gaze is sharp and piercing, fiercely intent.

"No one else," he reminds her quietly, voice at its lowest, a rumble that echoes in her skin. "In thought as well as in action. There is no place in this game for any other players, Lizzie _._ He has _no right_ here."

"I can't just _not_ think about it," she snaps back. "Don't you think I wish I could forget?"

"I don't," he returns, yanking her against him, "see any reason for you to _think_ , at all."

His mouth is on hers again, powerful and demanding, so different from…anyone before. Her arms wind around him so she doesn't fall, her balance thrown, her head spinning, thoughts blurring.

"Are you saying 'no'?" he asks, letting the words form against her lips, a tempting brush. "Tell me, and I'll leave."

She's thrumming with need, doubts washing away with the water, with the press of his fingers starting to erase the last lingering remnants of memory.

"Stay," she answers, holding on to him, seeking anchorage. "Make me forget. Don't leave room inside me for anything but you."

He makes a rough, inarticulate sound, and then she is up against the shower wall, dizzy with the sudden movement, edges of the small mosaic tiles pressing into her back. He holds her face in his hands as he kisses her with a furious intensity, every inch of him hard to her soft as he sears himself into her brain.

He will eliminate the taste of that mongrel from her mouth, no matter what it takes — a promise to himself. She's already moving with him, her response eager now, one hand clamped around the back of his neck while the other works its way between them to circle his cock.

He thrusts into her hand instinctively, need a tight coil in his gut. It feels like she is exploring, her fingers tracing over every inch, sliding under to cup him lightly, teasing. He'll be damned if he comes in her hand — he's graceless enough as it is.

"Can you take me again?" he asks, then nips her earlobe and feels her nipples stiffen further against his chest.

"I will," she says, her voice raw. She widens her stance and hooks a foot around his calf. "I'm sore, it'll hurt; _I don't care._ Make me remember _you_."

Triumph roars within; he lifts her, helps her legs around his hips, using the wall to balance them both. Then he's pushing inside her, nearly losing it at the clutch of her, at her moaning cry and the dig of her nails, as if he has been weeks without release instead of mere minutes.

He stays still for a breath, two, regaining control of himself. Then starts to move, gently, little shifts designed to titillate without pain. Her limbs all tighten around him in response, demanding more with every nip and scratch.

"Don't," she gasps, "don't be easy. I need all of you; give me _everything."_

Everything stops for one brief shimmering moment, then he's pouring into her, without a care for her pleasure, her pain. If he had a thought to spare he might worry about it, but she's hot and tight around him — meeting his demands eagerly. She urges him on, managing words between moans; about how he feels inside her, about the way she wants him, and finally just his name, _Red, Red,_ over and over.

One last powerful thrust makes her scream; clutch and release around him with her teeth in his neck. He rears back and comes with a shout of his own, so hard and long he is dizzy with it. He comes to his senses on the verge of collapse, her body a slack weight in his arms, her limbs gone loose around him. He manages to get them over to the tiled bench in the corner before he falls and does one or both of them a serious injury.

She can't quite open her eyes, can only lean against the wall and hope she doesn't topple over and drown. Soothing hands move over her, the scent of soap in the air. Firm on her muscles, gentle, ever so gentle, everywhere else. The soft trickle of water cools her now, not cold enough to startle or cramp her muscles, just enough to refresh.

It feels like everything has hit her at once — jet lag, anxiety, the last case, this long night. She fades out, his light caresses relaxing her into sleep. She has a brief final moment of awareness as she is lifted carefully into strong arms, and then nothing, nothing but welcome dark.


	8. VIII: Scrutiny

**A/N:** I honestly only just realized how long it has been since I posted, which just goes to show how much attention I pay to the world around me. I'm sorry to be so slow these days, and am so glad that some people are still tuning in! Thanks so much for sticking with me.

* * *

Earlier, she had dreamt of hands that hurt, that betrayed, that punished. Now, she dreams instead of hands that soothe, that stroke, that arouse. Strong hands, heavy yet still dextrous, with long, nimble fingers that work magic on anything they touch. Hands that coax with an exquisite gentleness; that hold fast and give comfort.

Oh, they can hurt as well, just as any can — she has seen them do terrible things. Reprehensible, even.

But never to her.

To Liz, these hands mean only safety, strength, and pleasure. _Oh, such pleasure._ As she sleeps, they play a symphony on her dreaming body, light as air. She sighs with the loveliness of it, not realizing she sighs aloud.

But he does.

Red watches over her sleep, curled close, warm and safe. Watches as her eyelids flutter and a smile forms. He cannot guess what she is seeing, except that it is clearly much more pleasant than her earlier torments.

He lets himself imagine, just for a moment, that she might dream of him. The small, newly awakened corner of his soul begins to stretch a little in response, and though he wants to ignore it, quash it firmly dead, he can't quite manage it.

He doesn't want to hope.

* * *

She slides into wakefulness, brimming with wellbeing. Her body feels light and almost hollow, as if she's been remade from something soft and sunny.

Is it happiness, or just the lack of abject misery?

She isn't sure, and doesn't want to look too closely at the feeling, in case inspection makes it disappear. She shifts her body in the silky sheets and the sharp twinge that shoots through her reminds her just where this feeling came from.

She can feel her cheeks flush hot as she opens her eyes cautiously; breathes a quiet sigh of relief at finding herself alone. She sits up, and groans a little as she settles back into her body. She has aches in a surprisingly large number of places — she stretches from toes to fingertips and laughs aloud.

She's never wished for a post-sex cool down before.

Her legs wobble as she stands up, and it takes a few seconds to find her feet. Pulling on the short, silky robe she finds at the end of the bed, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror opposite and leaves it hanging open as she stares.

Her skin is a chromatic map of the previous night _(had it really only been one night?)_ ; his marks flashing everywhere, as if he had sought to leave no inch of her unclaimed. She traces a chain of reddish bruises along her collarbone and shivers.

She should be shocked. Appalled. Possibly alarmed. Maybe even angry.

She isn't. She'd be happy to wake this way every morning for the rest of…

She shakes her head sharply, banishing the treacherous thought as fast and hard as she can. The last thing she wants is another troubled and fraught relationship, especially with a man she already knows she can't trust. Good sex is just good sex, nothing more — and knowing that's what she'd get is partly why she went to him the first place. If it's better than she could have imagined...well, then she's lucked out, hasn't she?

She belts the robe briskly, runs a hand through her hair, and heads for the main room in search of coffee, Red, and something to eat.

Now that she thinks about it, she is _starving_.

* * *

He beams easily at Franklin, a shining façade that never fails to give the opposing party a shiver, not really paying attention as he considers his options. As the other man rushes on, the soft click of a door handle catches his attention.

He glances up, and is caught. By the beauty of her in the sliver of light. By the way she makes his heart thump. By the way she looks, all sleepy-eyed and rumpled and appealing. An unreasoning anger floods him at the thought of a man like Franklin looking at her in that slip of a robe, leering at her delicate loveliness, at the evidence of sex all over her.

He gives her an almost imperceptible shake of his head, and feels the expression of fierce warning on his face. Her expression changes too, darkening a little as her posture stiffens, but she ducks back into the bedroom and lets the door fall shut again.

And that's all that matters, for now.

Franklin has started stammering, and Red realizes that all this has taken a mere moment, and the hapless man thinks Red's foreboding look is for him. He decides to give Franklin a small break, offers a slightly more genuine smile, and with a small mental effort, focuses on the necessary business.

They conclude with a firm handshake, as good as an oath. As he reaches out an arm to usher Franklin out of the suite, the other man glances as the closed bedroom door, then shoots him a sly glance.

"She's staying with you?" he asks, open curiosity in his tone. "Your...latest? I saw the two of you last night — she's a beautiful girl, Red, but really…"

Red smiles widely, showing a little tooth. "As you know, Franklin, some women require closer, hm…supervision than others." He winks, attempting roguish. "Besides, a man's needs don't necessarily end when the party does, do they?"

Franklin laughs now, reassured exactly as Red intended, though the exchange leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He shuts the door behind Franklin with more than the usual relief.

Perhaps a peace offering is in order…

* * *

He opens the door wide with one hand, cradling the steaming mug in the other.

He starts to greet her, to offer the hot coffee, but stops as he catches sight of her. She paces the room in long, restless strides, a study in unrelieved black, her hair pinned back severely. He wonders if it makes her feel more official, if she tries to put on her FBI persona along with the somber colour and staid cuts.

She couldn't be more wrong, of course. Every time she takes a step, the short jacket shifts and offers a glimpse of the curve of her waist, a flash of hip; the slim pants pull against her legs enticingly. With her hair tied back, the marks he left on her neck are stark and clear.

He'd enjoy watching her more if not for the inevitable confrontation on its way — and at that precise moment, her eyes meet his with an electric blue flare.

"Your _latest?"_

The venom in her voice is regrettably familiar.

"Lizzie," he starts, aiming at soothing, but she's not having any of it today.

"I need _supervision,_ do I? Keeping your enemies a little closer these days?"

"Lizzie," he says again, putting the mug down on the dresser and sitting heavily on the bed. "Please, try and keep things in perspective."

She sputters for a moment, and then appears to gather herself. "Okay," she says, attempting calm. "I'll admit, I wasn't paying that much attention yesterday when you were explaining your current problem. If you wouldn't mind a recap?"

"In all honesty, Lizzie, my current problem is…you." He shrugs apologetically and grins at her.

Her expression flickers in a couple of interesting ways before she settles back into pissed off. "Are you _serious?_ What could _I_ possibly have to do with _any_ of your 'business'?"

"Have you already forgotten the time we just spent together?" he asks, not entirely faking the shadow of hurt in his voice. "You, a disgraced FBI agent and alleged killer, evading the law, on the lam with infamous criminal, Raymond Reddington? Working closely together for what, six months? We were featured on news stations all over the Western world, Elizabeth. Everyday Americans aren't the only ones who heard the story, I assure you. The impact on my business has been making itself known."

She hesitates a minute, thoughts clear on her open face. "I guess…I hadn't thought about that," she admits, shoving her hands in her pockets. "So letting everyone think that…that I'm…that we're...it's like, a cover for you?"

"More or less," he agrees. "If the more…unsavoury of my acquaintances think we're lovers, then they won't worry about why I'm so heavily involved with an FBI agent. They'll understand why I might have accompanied you for months instead of merely helping you to disappear. In fact, it works to my advantage."

That last admission may have been a mistake, as he watches the implication hit home.

"Oh, I see," she chokes out, face flushing in renewed anger. "So, in addition to being your current _sidepiece,_ I'm also your spy on the inside? Betraying myself, my coworkers, _and_ my country?" Her eyes sparkle with tears of rage. "A whore on all fronts, is that it?"

No matter how often he tells himself that she regularly speaks in haste, that her words don't mean anything, they can still pierce like a knife. Anger is a mask she wears, hiding herself, protecting her vulnerabilities. From the moment she first sat down across from him, brisk professionalism covering trembling nerves, she has used aggression as her shield.

"Do you really believe that's what I think, Elizabeth?" His voice is soft and slow, deliberately pitched to make her pause.

And she does, stopping in front of him to examine his face.

"No," she says, almost reluctantly. "I know you don't."

"And I'm sure that's not what you think of yourself. I sincerely hope it isn't."

She shakes her head, but her face is still set in lines of temper.

"You're so angry, but you're really afraid," he continues, watching her eyes darken. He's talking faster now, trying to quiet the unpleasant flutter around his heart. "You started this, thinking it was something you could control, finally; that you could dictate the world around you. Now you have been reminded that you can't, that it can never be _all_ your own way, and you hate it. I understand, Lizzie, I do.

"You started this," he repeats. "Now there's more to it than you intended. It's up to you. Do you still want it, or is it too much for you?" He deliberately makes it a taunt, knowing she won't be able to back down, knowing he's not ready to stop touching her.

Dozens of words shimmer over her face before her breath hisses out between her teeth, and she's gripping his face in cold hands while her mouth burns against his. She has an edge to her, this time, sharp and keen, and it sparks something similar inside him that flashes to life in the breath of an instant.

A devouring more than a kiss — they've barely begun and she's already fumbling at his buttons with shaking fingers.

Need claws at him like an animal struggling for escape; he's frighteningly close to being completely out of control. He wraps a hand around her neck, fingers tangling in her hair, and yanks her roughly down into him, letting them both fall backwards onto the still-tangled sheets.

They roll, once, twice, struggling for dominance. She's on him like a second skin, pulling his shirt open and bringing blood with her nails at the same time. She wants to hurt him, hurt him like she is hurting.

Why does it always come to this, between them?

"I hate you," she says bitterly, even as her hands busy themselves with his zipper.

"Oh, I know, sweetheart," he replies, and if his voice is unutterably weary with the words, there's a laugh in there, too. "But you care at the same time."

She sighs, pausing to press her forehead against his, her eyes shut, hiding away again.

But, "I do," she says (honesty, at least), "and I don't know how to even begin to reconcile it all."

"Right here, of course," he says, shifting to take a fond, familiar nip at her lips. "Right here is where you start."

But it's all wrong, her mind howls at her, this isn't how it should be. If it's light and fun and a game — that's okay. But this darkness...this maelstrom of emotion, this tangle of friendship and affection, hate and fear, anger and betrayal, lust and...something else, no, nothing else, it's enough as it is, it's _too much, too much._

He's using her, just like everyone else. A means to an end.

She may have started this, but somehow, she played right into his hands. And she's made the fool.

Again.

She tears herself from his grip, snatching up her discarded t-shirt and yanking it over her head as she scrambles off the bed and backs away.

"Lizzie?"

His voice is all caring and concern, and not knowing if it's real breaks her, then and there.

"No," she says, voice tight with tears and fury and frustration. "I can't, not like this. It's all wrong, it's all gone wrong. You aren't… This isn't…"

She can't go on, afraid of what might come out of her mouth. Instead, she turns on her heel and flees, pausing only to grab her shoulder bag on her way out the door. She can hear him, banging to his feet, already coming after her as the suite door slams behind her.

She doesn't stop moving until she's at the airport; doesn't properly breathe until the plane is in the air.

She leans against the window, eyes shut tight against her own thoughts. Wishing there was someone, anyone in the world, that she could turn to. Someone to care about her unconditionally, who doesn't want anything from her.

She misses her father with a terrible pain in her heart. His easy smile and warm affection and the cozy home that he'd made for them. She clenches her jaw and digs her nails into palms to beat back the tears, all the way back to Washington.

* * *

She unlocks her apartment door wearily, too tired now to weep, the bone-deep exhaustion of overwrought emotion and lack of food and sleep leaving her aching and stumbling.

And it's unfortunate, it really is, because she has no fight in her, can only gape at the back of the stranger in her living room, looking at the photos on her desk.

The stranger who straightens and turns at the sound of her shuffling footsteps, at the thump of her bag hitting the floor.

He's tall and handsome in an aquiline sort of way, with a shock of wavy blond hair and a fierce profile. He smiles when he sees her, his face lighting up like he's been waiting years for her arrival.

She just stares at him, mind empty, too drained to do anything at all.

"It's so good to see you," he says quietly, as if he is trying not to frighten her. "So good to see you again, at last.

"Masha."


	9. IX: Blood

He paces, even on the jet, around and around the plush cabin. He miscalculated, badly, and isn't sure how he will set things right again.

He only knows that he needs to see her. To reassure himself that things are only bent, not broken. To try and explain himself, when he still doesn't know exactly where he went wrong, or what he really wants.

He can't erase the image of her face when she ran from him.

It wasn't the anger or the fear, both of which he is used to and thinks he understands. No one likes being manipulated; no one likes to feel like their life is out of control.

It was the genuine hurt; the hurt, loss, and confusion.

How many times since physically entering her life has he put that look on her face?

He scrubs a hand over his head wearily, and then jolts in annoyance as his cell phone rings. It's the fifth time since he left the hotel in Venice, and though it's nothing but an irritation in his current state of mind, he supposes it may be important.

"Yes," he snaps, pacing, still pacing.

"Raymond." Relief colours his bodyguard's quiet voice. "Finally. Are you on your way here?"

"I am," he replies, trying, for Dembe, to stay polite at least. "Is this something that can't wait?"

"Is Elizabeth with you?"

"Answering a question with a question? How unlike you."

He's angry and afraid and unhappy, too.

"Is she with you?" Dembe repeats, urgency in his voice now, cutting through the haze of Red's thoughts.

"No," he answers, voice sharper, paying attention. "She left alone, shortly before I did. Why?"

"I'll pick you up and we'll go straight to her apartment," Dembe says. "Alexander Kirk is in town."

Now, now he is finally able to stop pacing as everything inside him goes cold and hard, and he drops heavily into a seat.

And wonders if there is any way, any way at all, that he can get to Lizzie first.

* * *

"Masha." The stranger reaches out a hand, but she just stares blankly at him. His smile fades a little, and he closes his eyes briefly. "I've been imagining this moment for 25 years."

She hears him, but his words aren't really making sense — she's so tired, and so sick of being afraid.

"Who are you?" she says, her voice coming out as a croak.

"Alexander Kirk," he answers. "Though that wasn't always so. Once, long ago, I was Constantin Rostov. Masha, I'm your father."

Her head is spinning; the world tilts. She stares blankly at Kirk, not a single thought in her head.

"I know Raymond Reddington is back in your life," he says, his voice bitter now, an undercurrent of anger running strong through it. "What did he tell you about me? Has he already poisoned your mind-"

"He told me my father is dead," she interrupted, ghostly quiet. "He told me I shot my father and my father is dead."

She feels rootless, adrift. Is _anything_ real anymore?

Kirk curses softly under his breath, then takes her arm.

"He'll be here soon, I'm sure," he says. "I want you to come with me, Masha, so we can talk. There's so much to say."

The anger of the morning rises again, like a furious tide. He'd sworn he'd never lie to her — and she'd been fool enough to believe it. Had wanted someone to believe in badly enough to accept him at his word.

She wants to scream, cry, throw things. She wants Red there in front of her, so she can yell and slap and punish, and force the truth from him, for once.

Instead, she looks into the clear blue eyes of this stranger, her father — eyes, she realizes with a start, much like her own — and nods.

"Okay," she says aloud. "I'll come with you."

Kirk beams at her like Christmas morning, and ushers her out the door.

Maybe, just maybe, she'll find a truth somewhere in the world.

* * *

She is already gone.

They've arrived too late — not by much, if his senses are anything to go by. He'd swear he can feel her on the air in a hint of warmth, a touch of fragrance.

But maybe he's just kidding himself.

Because she's gone, and he knows what she's going to hear from Kirk, and exactly what Kirk really wants from her and the danger in it. And the staggering shock of pain threatens to crumple him where he stands.

Did he think that nagging corner of his soul was small and new? That it could be dampened, excused as lust, put away like an ill-fitting suit?

It's huge, it's noisy and powerful, it's all-encompassing. Because he doesn't just care for her; doesn't just need to watch over her and protect her; isn't guiding her now because of a decades-old obligation; isn't just enjoying her to fulfill a need or sate a hunger.

He's in love with her; with everything he has, he loves her.

And it may destroy him.

Because she's gone.

* * *

She has a bad moment when the car pulls up at an airfield. Is she really going to get on a plane to goodness-knows-where with a complete stranger?

"Is this...really necessary?" she says hesitantly. "There are plenty of places to talk that Reddington doesn't know about."

Kirk laughs at that. "Of course there are," he says. "But I want to show you some of your history. Your childhood, Masha, with myself and your mother. Wouldn't you like to see it?"

And he has her then, of course he does, because there's very little she wants more than to solve the mystery of her past.

She boards his small Cessna without another word.

They're barely in the air before exhaustion takes over, and she falls heavily into a mercifully dreamless sleep. She wakes briefly when they land, and moves dazedly into a sleek black car without a word, no questions, uncaring. She goes stubbornly back to sleep when they start moving again, the feel of Kirk's hand gently patting hers the only sensation has any impact at all.

She is roused again by a gentle shaking, the sound of her name in a quiet masculine voice. Not the one she's used to, though, and the strangeness shakes her out of her stupor.

Her eyes blink open to the anxious face of…her father, although she can't really think of him that way. He smiles as their eyes meet.

"You're awake," he says, "good. Come and see."

He gets out of the car without saying anything else, and her curiosity is enough to have her following him out of the car to stand on a smooth green lawn. The air smells like the ocean, and the pretty white house gleams like a jewel against a dark blue sky.

"What time is it?" she asks, her brain scrambled by the long hours of travel. It feels like weeks since Venice, even though it can't really be more than a day.

Kirk checks his watch. "It's around 4:30 in the morning, local time," he replies. "You must be tired after a long day at work and then all this traveling. We should go inside; you can get a little more rest, freshen up."

 _You don't know the half of it,_ she thinks wryly, but is certain it's better not to say anything. Besides, her hours of sleep don't seem to have left her any more rested, and she feels grubby and dull.

She follows Kirk inside, admiring the wide wooden staircase and the open, airy feeling in the house. Waiting on the steps are two people, a young woman with a welcoming face and an older man who looks impatient and harried. Kirk's face falls at the sight of him, and turns to Liz with a faint shadow of his previous smile.

"You'll have to excuse me, Elizabeth," he says politely. "I have much more to show you, but my physician is waiting for me."

He walks up the stairs and joins the older man; together, they disappear down the upstairs hallway. The woman steps down further to offer Liz a hand.

"Hello, Elizabeth. My name is Katja. You can think of me as the Palace Keeper."

"Palace?" Liz asks, wondering how deep this rabbit hole is, exactly.

"The Summer Palace," Katja replies. "It's what Mr. Kirk calls the cottage. Anything you need during your stay, let me know."

She leads Liz up the stairs and down the hall to a corner bedroom, with pretty flowered wallpaper and a slanted ceiling. There's a dollhouse in the corner and a table and chairs suitable for a small child.

It calls to something inside her, and she tries to blink it away, to focus.

"I…Tell me about Kirk," she says to Katja. "How long have you known him?"

"I have worked here for 9 years; I took over from my mother. She spent my entire childhood maintaining the Summer Palace."

"So you know him well?" Information that the other person doesn't expect you to have is always valuable.

"No, actually, I don't," Katja answers. "He hasn't visited here in years — it's been too painful for him. Until now."

Uncomfortable with this seeming praise, Liz looks away, out the window at the gradually lightening sky. She wishes, suddenly, to go home, and then realizes that she doesn't really have one anymore.

Before she just drops to the floor and burst into tears, she turns back to the friendly housekeeper.

"Would I be able to have a shower?" she asks.

"Oh, of course! Come with me, and we'll have you feeling better in no time."

Katja bustles her back down the hall to a cozy bathroom, loading her up with a soft, plush towel and an armload of clean clothes.

"You should find all the toiletries you need," Katja says kindly. "I keep it stocked with fresh supplies."

After a quick thank you, Liz locks herself in and takes a few deep breaths. She strips off her stale clothes, only now noticing her pockets are empty — Kirk has taken her phone. She absorbs this with a shrug. She'll get it back from him, one way or another.

She takes the hottest shower she can manage, scouring off the dirt and unrest of this miserable day. The soap she finds carries the sweet scent of lavender, and makes her think of hot summer days and the warm embrace of a figure she can't quite picture.

 _My mother,_ she thinks, and takes a moment to rest her forehead against the cool tile.

She gathers herself with some effort, dries off, and puts on the clothes she'd been given. Leaving her hair wet, she leaves the bathroom to find Katja waiting.

"Mr. Kirk is downstairs," she says, "I don't think he can rest until he speaks with you."

Liz smiles in return, trying to make it genuine, and follows her down into what looks to be a study or a sitting room. Kirk waits for her there, sitting in a wide armchair and looking pale and tired, with his doctor standing behind him.

"Ah, Elizabeth," Kirk says, rising to greet her with a clasped hand. "You look refreshed. Come, sit."

She sits across from him in a matching chair, curling her feet underneath her.

"Do you remember the cottage?" he asks, his tone eager.

"I…I think I remember my bedroom," she says hesitantly. "I…I used to sit in the window to read."

Kirk's faint smile becomes a brilliant beam. "You did," he says, "You'd curl up there for hours on end."

"Alexander," the doctor says. "We should proceed straight away."

Kirk looks irritated, but takes her hand again. "I need to ask you for something," he says. "Just so we can both know that everything I'm telling you is the truth."

"What?" she asks.

"Just a small blood sample, just to verify that you are the right person, okay?"

He looks so anxious, and she's so sick of half-truths and evasions and manipulations that the straightforwardness of the request means more than what he's asking for.

"Fine," she says, aching and tired. "As long as it comes with answers."

The doctor has good hands; the needle barely pinches going in. He walks away with a vial of her blood, and she's dizzy enough to be glad she's sitting down. She can't actually remember the last time she ate anything.

"So," Kirk says with a deep sigh. "Welcome home, Masha. I have missed you…I can't even quantify it. I thought you gone forever, my sweet little girl."

"I…" she hesitates, the lure of family and home so strong she almost falls into it without question. But she can't. It's just not who she is. "But I shot my father. I remember it."

He shrugs this off with an impatient noise. "You remember it, pah. What is the memory of a small child? Reddington told you I was dead — I'm very clearly alive. All the stories Reddington's told you about who he is and his connection to you — he knew you were looking for answers and he took advantage of that to re-enter your life." His voice is changing, angry and bitter, his face twisted. "But he's a liar, a manipulator, a user. Reddington, he was in love with your mother, obsessed; he was having an affair with her, and he's–"

She blinks once, twice, the sudden roaring in her ears blanking out the rest of what he's saying.

A series of images flashes through her mind — Red's hands, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise; the flashing lights of a nightclub glinting off the soft fuzz of his hair; the hot, piercing look in his eyes as he pulls her head up to watch them move together in a shiny silver mirror.

Her stomach knots, rebels; her head, already light from the blood draw, spins and wavers. She stands abruptly, cutting off Kirk's words; stumbles over the rug and catches herself against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she says, "I'm just a bit dizzy, light-headed. Is there a...I just need a moment."

"Of course," he replies, all concern now, venom gone from his face and voice. "This way."

He guides her down the hall to a nicely appointed powder room. She raises an eyebrow at him and he flushes with embarrassment.

"I'll wait for you in the sitting room," he says. "Can you find your way back?"

She nods and slips into the small room, locking the door behind her before she slides down the wall and curls into herself..

She refuses to be sick, she just. Will. Not.

It can't be true, it _cannot be true_. Reddington is a man capable of cold machinations and manipulation, of violence and harsh action, but not this.

 _Please, not this._

She takes a few shaky breaths, trying to calm herself, then fumbles out the phone she'd palmed off Kirk. In a stroke of luck, it's her own she's nabbed. She says a silent thank you to Sam as she dials.

"Reddington."

He answers quickly, his voice sharp and impatient, and just like that, she knows he's already searching for her.

"Tell me it isn't true," is all she says, all she can choke out, pushed by the need that churns inside her.

"Elizabeth," he replies, and there's a world of relief and happiness and care in his tone. It makes her close her eyes tightly against the tears that burn behind them, waiting.

" _Tell me."_

"What has he been saying?" There's anger there now, and it doesn't really surprise her. He hates it when his secrets are bared to the light.

"Tell me that you weren't involved with my mother." Her voice gets tighter and higher and pinched. "Tell me that you weren't sleeping with her. Tell me that you weren't in _love_ with my _mother_ and now you're _fucking me_ , like some kind of-"

" _No,"_ he interrupts her before she can finish, before the hateful words roiling in her brain can escape and become real. The instant and vehement horror and revulsion in his voice reassure her more than any words could.

"Lizzie, _no._ I _never_ touched Katarina, never even thought of her that way. I swear to you."

She swallows the lump of emotion and bile lodged in her throat.

"You swear it," she repeats thickly, needing to hear it again.

"On everything I hold dear," he says. "I swear to you, Lizzie, there was never anything like that between her and I."

"Okay," she says, and she believes him. Not just because she wants to, _needs_ to, but because his tone resounds with honesty. "You'll tell me about her, her and you, when I see you again."

"I will," he says, without hesitation, and she feels better still.

"Where are you?" he asks, words coming faster now. "Has he hurt you? I'll come for you, Lizzie, just let me–"

"No." She interrupts him, because she's not ready, isn't finished with Kirk, yet. "He hasn't hurt me. He's...lonely, I think, and wants to get to know me, that's all."

"I wish that were true, Elizabeth," he says, sounding tired now, and sad. "But it isn't. You're not safe with him; tell me where you are."

Her stubborn spirit gives a little flicker of life; he doesn't know everything. And he _did_ lie to her about her father. How many of the other things that he's told her have been lies?

"I don't know where I am — I fell asleep on the way here."

"Elizabeth, please. Talk to him if you must, but you _aren't safe."_

She relents again, because he sounds so worried and so dogged by exhaustion that she can't help herself. She hears Kirk call her name.

"I have to go," she says. "He's looking for me. But...he calls it the Summer Palace."

She clicks off the phone, and stands to splash a little water on her face.

 _Okay,_ she thinks. _Okay._

* * *

 **A/N:** Some of the words in this one are borrowed directly from the script of episode 5.02, Mato; so many thanks to the Blacklist writers.


	10. X: Destruction

When she returns to the sitting room, the doctor is there with Kirk again, speaking to him rapidly in low tones. He cuts off as Liz comes into the room, and the men exchange an anxious glance.

"Feeling better, solnishko?"

"I'm fine, thanks." The lie is so much easier. "What's going on?"

"Going on? I don't think–"

Liz slams her hand on the table, making both men start. "You promised me the truth," she snaps. "I've had enough lies to last a dozen lifetimes. What is _going on?"_

"So stubborn," Kirk says with a fond smile. "Such fire. You're so much like your mother, Masha."

"Just tell me what's wrong."

The doctor clears his throat, and puts a comforting hand on Kirk's shoulder. "Elizabeth, I'm your father's physician, Dr. Reifler. I've been treating Alexander for many years for a serious blood disorder, a genetic illness inherited from his father called aplastic anemia. This disease has varying degrees of severity — unfortunately, Alexander's is very serious, and is now in the end stages."

She wonders how much more she can take before she breaks completely. "Wh–what does that mean?"

"An average person has between 150 to 400,000 platelets per microliter of blood. Your father's is under 10,000. Intracranial bleeding is a serious concern at this point."

She sits down with a thump, mind struggling to process the new information. "What about treatment?"

"He's been receiving transfusions for many years. If I give him another at this point, he's liable to suffer autoimmune shock."

"And if you don't?"

"He bleeds to death. And that's where you come in, Elizabeth."

"I…what?" She can't process it, has lost her grip who she is, what's happening around her. She suddenly longs for Red, even though she's still angry — for his sharp, incisive way of explaining a problem; for his steady affection; for his solid warmth.

"He needs a stem cell transplant from a genetic donor to have any chance at survival. I've tested the blood you gave, Elizabeth, and you are such a match."

"I won't force you to do this," Kirk says, taking her hands, squeezing tight. "It's enough for me to have you here with me, to know you're healthy and safe. Happy."

"I…" She doesn't know what to say. Finding a father, only to lose him again? Can she save him? Should she?

She is drained and empty and doesn't know what to do.

"Alexander!" A light voice from an adjoining room, female and worried. "What's keeping you?"

He drops Liz' hands and pats them where they lie in her lap. "I'll be back in just a moment," he says, and leaves the room hurriedly.

"Is it dangerous, harvesting stem cells?" she asks.

"Not really much more than any surgical procedure," the doctor says confidently. "Obviously, infection can cause problems, but we'll be very careful. There's risk of an embolism, which can damage organs, but it's a very small risk.

"I know this is a lot," he continues, and the kindness in his face takes her one step closer to breaking. "But we really can't wait long. Alexander…your father is in imminent danger."

Kirk returns, striding quickly across the room to pull her to her feet. "Don't worry for now, Masha," he says warmly, with a quelling look at the doctor. "I know you're tired and hungry — come and have some breakfast with me, and then a sleep, and then we can talk more."

She agrees, because she needs a clear head, and because she wants to get to know this man, at least a little. They go together to a warm kitchen, bright with early morning sun. Katja is already there, dishing steaming eggs onto plates, the scent of coffee wafting from the round wooden table at one side of the room.

So, she sits down, and has breakfast with her father, and it's a small oasis of cozy calm in the chaos of her life. As if sensing her exhaustion and her frazzled nerves, he leaves aside any further talk of Reddington and the past, or his illness, and instead tells her stories. Memories of the three of them as a family, their holidays here, in the Summer Palace; the things Liz had loved as a small child; the picture book she made him read to her, over and over again.

"The Poky Little Puppy," Kirk says with a laugh. "I think I could recite it, even now. It might still be on the shelf in your room."

She smiles back. "I'll have to look, later," she says. "I'm sure the plot holds up well."

It's a wonderful meal. She feels almost content, as long as she ignores the little voice inside her that clamours with things unsaid. Warnings of information not given, of the stories not told. Reminders of Reddington, and how he cares for her, and how the real truth must lie somewhere between these two men. Fear of the danger of being alone with strangers, in a strange place.

It's wonderful, as long as she pretends that everything's as it should be.

* * *

She sleeps again easily, despite the hours she got on during their travel. She curls into the warm comforter on the little twin bed and reaches for oblivion. She's unconscious in moments, but oblivion isn't attainable, not this time.

She dreams again; the same restless, frightening dreams she'd had in Venice. Dreams of masks removed and shattered hopes; dreams of fear and hate and hurt. But this time, there's no Red to save her from her own mind, to break the cycle, to wake her with a strong embrace and a soft touch.

She's left to struggle on her own, and so she when she finally fights her way awake, it's with an ache in her throat, a tear-streaked face, and a terrible sense of loss and loneliness. It takes a confused moment to remember where she is; another to collect herself.

She scrubs her hands over her face roughly, then looks around the room wistfully, only to find Kirk sitting in the window, watching her. Her heart gives a startled thump, but she manages to return his smile, fighting down her unease.

"You're awake," he says. "I'm sorry that you didn't have a better sleep."

"I'm sorry if I disturbed you," she returns, feeling awkward. "I…sometimes I have bad dreams."

"You call for him in your sleep, do you know that? Reddington. _Red._ " The bitter words burst out, as if he hadn't intended to say them, but couldn't stop himself.

She flushes helplessly, but manages to shrug with some nonchalance. "Reddington has been…keeping me safe for some time now," she says. "When the nightmares come, I suppose I think he'll come too, to protect me."

Kirk looks torn between anger and regret. "I don't want you to count on him," he says slowly. "This man…this _monster_ is not someone to look to for protection."

"I can't help what my subconscious does," she snaps back defensively. "He's saved my life countless times, taught me things, sheltered me when I was alone and in trouble."

"And how much of that trouble would have come to you if he'd stayed out of your life?" Kirk retorts, fists clenched on his thighs.

She hesitates now, because it isn't as if she hasn't asked herself the same question, over and over, when she's alone and angry and afraid. But…

"That's impossible to know," she says slowly. "Because he didn't. But if he _had,_ it could have easily been much worse instead of better. He says he came to help me, to protect me, and I…I believe that's true, even if it isn't the _whole_ truth."

The realization warms her, quiets one angry little corner of her mind. She believes it, and there's a great deal of reassurance in it.

"You have no idea what he's capable of," Kirk says. "He isn't what you think, Elizabeth."

She can feel her face set in stubborn lines. "It doesn't matter," she says. "It's not important right now, anyway."

His struggle is clear on his face — her father is an open book, just like her — but he manages to put it away, and nod in agreement.

"Okay," he says, "you're right. Let's go downstairs for a quick bite to eat, and then we'll talk."

* * *

"What time is it?" she asks again, as they sit in the kitchen.

"Almost 2," Kirk replies. "You slept for a long time. I think you've been working too hard, Masha."

She smiles, wishing that were true; wishing that were all it was. "Lots of travel," she answers noncommittally. "It wears on me after a while."

He pats her hand. "Maybe," he says gently, "it might be time to think about a change."

Inwardly, she thinks she's had more than enough change recently; outwardly, she just shrugs.

"Maybe," she says.

She takes an apple from a pretty blue bowl on the table and bites into it, so she doesn't have to talk. Her dreams have left her edgy and uncertain, and the comfort of the early morning has vanished.

They share a meal of fruit and cheese, much quieter than their earlier breakfast, the air between them strained by their brief argument. Kirk looks introspective, withdrawn, and doesn't eat much before rising from the table.

"Take your time, Elizabeth," he says. "Join me in the study when you're ready."

She watches him walk away, thinking that he looks tired. She wonders if he slept at all, while she was mired in nightmares. She wonders who this man really is.

Looking down at her plate, her stomach turns over, and she pushes away from the table. She doesn't want to go to the study though, isn't ready to face the demands that will come. Instead, she wanders toward the front of the house, coming to an open front room with a wide window.

There's a massive old tree on the front lawn, with an old swing hanging from a sturdy branch. Something in her mind twitches — recognition? Or just an inner longing for the simplicity and joy it represents?

She closes her eyes and breathes, long and quiet. She doesn't know what decision she'll make, but she knows someone will be looking for her before long.

 _Red,_ she thinks, _I wish you were here._ If nothing else, he always has her back, and it would be nice not to feel so alone.

But he isn't there, and she is alone, and time is up. She gives herself a brief shake, and heads back toward the study.

* * *

He's not there when she walks in, the room empty and still. She stalls in the doorway, confused, but then the sound of voices clues her in. He's in the room beyond, with the woman from earlier, and Dr Reifler.

She walks through the study to the open doorway on the other side; then hesitates again at the sight of what lies beyond it. That it's basically a hospital room isn't that surprising, she supposed, if Kirk's health is really so precarious. It's more the incongruity with the rest of the house, and the fact that it must have been put together in a fairly short time, that makes her stop and rethink.

 _How desperate are they?_

Kirk's voice is rising in some agitation.

"...we may need to."

Then the woman, her voice strident and angry.

"Alexander, you're being ridiculous. This is–"

Kirk turns from her in frustration, and spots Liz in the doorway.

"Elizabeth," he says warmly, interrupting his companion with apparent cheer. "There you are."

"Hi," she answers awkwardly. "Is something wrong?"

"Just going over some details," Kirk starts, but the other woman interrupts him, her eyes flashing.

"You need to make a decision," she snaps. "Alexander needs your help."

Kirk shoots the woman a quelling look, then tries to smile at Liz. "This outspoken lady is my attorney, and a longtime friend, Odette," he says. "She is a fierce protector — maybe a little too much, sometimes."

Liz restricts herself to a nod of acknowledgement. She knows what that's like, after all.

"Dr Reifler tells me he has given you the details on my…illness," Kirk continues. "Really, there's no pressure, Masha, but time is short."

She bites her lip, uncomfortable, not wanting to say what she's thinking. Because if there is one lesson she has learned since Reddington smashed into her life, it's that you can't take anything at face value, and that trusting strangers is just stupid, and possibly deadly.

"Look," she says, feeling awful and strange. "I–I understand what you're saying, and it's not that I don't want to help you. It's just…I'm alone here. You say you're my father, and that the blood tests you ran prove it, but you could say anything. Be anyone."

There's hurt in Kirk's face now, and Odette's is clouded with rage.

"I think I remember this house, I do, but that could be suggestion as well, couldn't it? You want me to place myself in your hands, not just to be here, to talk with you, to believe what you say. You want to sedate me and do surgery on me. If I could have someone here with me…"

" _How dare you,"_ Odette snarls, her eyes flashing bright. "How dare you say such things to this man, your father, who has suffered, who has searched for you? You can save his life, and you'll stand aside?"

"Let me call someone," she answers, determined not to let this woman bully her. _Samar,_ she thinks, _Samar will keep me safe._ "Let me have someone I can trust to watch over me, and…"

Her words trail off as she catches sight of a dark trickle of blood oozing from Kirk's nose. Then, everything starts happening fast, too fast.

Odette turns to follow her shocked eyes, and swears virulently. She spins on her heel even as Kirk wipes at his face with his hand, his eyes fixed on Liz. When Odette turns back, she has a gun in her hand and tears running down her face.

"You'll do this," she shouts. "You'll do it, or I'll kill you, and it won't matter whether you can trust us or not."

"Odette!" Kirk's voice is shocked, and a little frightened. "This is _not_ the way, please, put that down."

"No," Odette retorts. "Not until this is over."

"You listen to me…" Kirk says.

"I won't…" Liz starts, angry herself now.

Before she can get more words out, everyone's moving.

Kirk is grabbing Odette's arm, his own face a mask of fury, spinning her to face him, shouting in Russian. She shouts back at him as they stand toe-to-toe, the gun wavering between them dangerously. Liz takes a step, wary but afraid — and for good reason, because then it goes off, the gun goes off, and the sound is enormous in the sterile room.

There's one of those moments, the hushed, terrible silence of shock and fear and realization. Then, Odette is screaming, and the doctor is shouting, and when Liz focuses her eyes again, she's on the floor, with her hands pressed to the bloody wound on Kirk's chest.

She's been here before, and the déjà vu is horrifying and nauseating. Her vision blurs again, Kirk's form fading in and out, and she bites the inside of her cheek hard, to steady herself.

She tries to ignore the chaos around her — the sound of running feet, Odette's harsh sobbing, and…more gunshots? Yelling, and the unmistakable sounds of fighting. Her name, demanding and strident, _Elizabeth._ Relief sweeps over her.

"Red," she shouts, "Red, back here, _hurry!"_

She focuses again on Alexander Kirk, on the bright blue eyes that match her own, on the lined, pale face that seems to be smiling at her.

"I love you, Masha," he says faintly.

Tears are running down her own face now, and she pushes harder on his chest, harder and harder, with all her weight, because he's bleeding far too much and too quickly and it's terrifying.

"I'll help you," she chokes out, "I was only afraid. I've been afraid for so long."

"It's okay," he manages. "Everything will be okay."

But his eyes are fluttering closed, and the pulse of the blood under her hands is dying away, and she can't hear the harsh rasp of his breath or the thump of his heart, and she's losing him before he'd even really been found, and _no no no._

She doesn't realize that she's shouting until a pair of hands covers hers, familiar and warm. Until the most familiar voice is whispering in her ear, _hush, Lizzie, hush, come with me now._ Until her ears stop buzzing and she realizes that all the other noise has stopped, and that the room is empty except for her and her dead father. And the man behind her.

She curls into him without looking. She doesn't need to look, because even without the soothing cues of sound and touch and smell — who else would be here, now?

"Red," she manages, "was it true?"

"Yes," he answers, his voice heavy and sad. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart."

She's lost to tears again then — she can't speak, can't even move. Strong arms enfold her, lift her with a swift exhale of air. She clutches his jacket and buries her face in the soft cotton of his shirt and soaks him in anguish as he carries her away from the cottage, from the Summer Palace.

Her savior; her destroyer.

Her shadow knight in tarnished armour.

Hers.

* * *

She huddles in his lap like a broken thing, withdrawn and quiet, the only sign of life her choked breathing and her fingers wound tightly into his shirt. He curses himself for his weakness, for letting her go, for the way she's hurting.

For the way he can't be anything but happy that she's safe and here, with him.

His hands rub her back, up and down soothingly, his arms cradling her close. Love swamps him, mires him in tenderness; he brushes a light kiss against her hair. She turns her head then, tips her face to look at him, her cheeks stained with blood and tears. Closing his eyes against the hard beat of his heart, he presses his lips to her forehead.

She makes a small, needy noise in response and pulls at him, her eyes dark; knowing, understanding the need in her, he kisses her mouth, soft and warm. Her lips tremble against his, and he shifts a hand to cup her face, steadying them both.

The fog in her brain starts to clear with the gentleness of his embrace, with the familiar feel of his mouth on hers. Finally, she is able to shake the image that haunts her — not the newest death, which is awful enough, but an old and familiar nightmare. Red, lying broken in a dirty street, choking on his own blood.

She finally feels something besides fear, terror, confusion — the comforting heat of lust coils inside like smoke. Her fingers can finally loosen, and she wraps herself around him, rejoicing in the assurance of the physical.

He reacts quickly; he always does. He is by far the most responsive lover she's had; his simple joy in touch is a continual revelation. She sighs her relief, mouth slipping open so she can taste him. His breath is coming faster, his body hardening beneath her.

He loses the ability to think for a moment, maybe two, as she slides her tongue against his. She tastes of salt and cold metal, and he misses her usual wild tang. He lets his hands, his mouth, trace the familiar shapes of her; both reassurance and need, twining together.

She wants nothing more than to lose herself in him; to forget the last two days completely and drown in him. She turns into him, aching for the oblivion of sex. His hands are rubbing her back again, though, and she suspects he is trying to calm her.

She nips at him, fingers plucking at his shirt buttons, pressing her body close. But although he doesn't pull away, he keeps himself carefully banked, his mouth soft and easy.

He is alight with need inside — the urge to let her have her way, to strip her bare and drive inside her, to make her his, again, nearly overwhelming. But it isn't the right time, and he doesn't want to be reduced to a foil for her turbulent emotions. He uses a great deal of his formidable control to keep the fire inside him at a quiet flicker.

She needs to face what happened, to rest and recover. He can tell that she is nearly at her limit of endurance, and is more in need of sleep than anything else.

"Lizzie," he says softly, managing to pull away. "Lizzie, wait."

"No," she says, sliding the tie from his neck and tossing it behind her. "I don't want to. I want _you."_

He draws a shaky breath, because _god,_ he wants her too, so much he can taste it. He marshals himself with some difficulty; grips her shoulders and shifts her back a bit, enough so he can look her in the eye.

"Lizzie," he repeats, gentle but firm. "Not now, sweetheart. You need to rest."

"Don't tell me what I need," she snaps. "I _know_ what I need, and–"

"Lizzie," he interrupts, a little louder, a little firmer. "No. Your hands are still covered in blood, for goodness sake."

Shocked out of the haze of longing, she looks down and her stomach lurches unpleasantly. Both her hands are stained to the wrist, so saturated in her father's blood that a few spots are still glistening and red. Red's shirt is covered in handprints and streaks of rust; his face and neck also bear the marks she's painted on him.

She scrambles to her feet, horrified and shaky.

"I'm so sorry," she manages. "Your clothes, I…" She can't go on; she is overwhelmed.

"I don't care about that," he says impatiently, standing to pull her back into his arms. "I care about _you._ Go and wash up, and then you can sleep until we're home."

She nods against his chest, thinking again that there is no home, and that she may never sleep again.

But when she's as clean as is possible without a shower, and tucked under a soft blanket across from him while he reads, with the monotonous hum of the jet engine the only thing to be heard, she slips into the darkness like it's the simplest thing in the world.

* * *

 **A/N:** I borrowed a few more words, about Kirk's illness, from the show, so thanks again to the writers.


	11. XI: Overcome

He'd thought she should wake in familiar surroundings, so the bed he tucks her up in is her own. He stands beside it, watching the quiet rise and fall of her body, and gives a silent thanks to whatever powers are out there.

Though she is certain to have difficult questions for him, though she will certainly be angry with him again...she is safe and whole. Safe, where she belongs.

He leaves her to sleep, thinking that she would prefer solitude. Privacy has become a rarity for her, and it is a simple gift for him to give.

He only goes as far as the living room, anyway.

* * *

When she wakes, it's with no clear idea where she is, what time it might be, even what day it is. There's a deep relief in looking around and seeing her own things, realizing she is in her own cozy apartment, safe and sound.

She sits up, wrapping her arms around her knees. She's as close to _home_ as she can get, and she is still missing that feeling, that essential feeling of _belonging._ She remembers returning from family visits as a child, and the pure happiness of being back in the small, messy house she grew up in.

She tries to shake off her maudlin feelings. She should at least get up and decide what day it is. What happened to Alexander Kirk's…remains, and what her obligations might be. What, if anything, Cooper and the task force know about the last few days. Where Red is, and what he has to say for himself.

The thought of it all exhausts her all over again.

She hauls herself to her feet with a sigh, and opens the bedroom door, thinking she'll shower and change after she has something to eat. But in the hallway, it hits her.

She's not alone — her senses flood with it. The spicy aroma of the tea that Dembe prefers, warm on the air. The rumbling sound of soft laughter, quiet voices; the _slip-slap_ of playing cards.

And two men who sit, kibitzing quietly; the two people who care about her the most, who have looked after her for a year — or rather, almost all of her life. As she leans against the doorway into the living room, it's the sight of him, rumpled shirt with the sleeves rolled up, face crinkled in amusement at something Dembe has said.

It hits her, and the simple warm joy of it has her body easing and her eyes tearing.

It's here, after all.

 _Home._

* * *

He doesn't know what makes him look up — not a sound, or a scent. Maybe it's just a change in the air.

She's there in the doorway, leaning against the jamb with a soft, bemused look on her face and shiny damp eyes. A look that makes his heart beat harder; that makes him want to cuddle her close; that makes him feel flush with love. He feels his smile broaden reflexively, and her face brightens in return.

Then, he watches her take a deep breath, as if she is strengthening herself for something, and come the rest of the way into the room. She joins them at the table, sitting without speaking, but taking Dembe's hand when it's offered.

"Elizabeth," Dembe says affectionately. "It's good to see you."

"You too," she says, meaning it. She thinks that his level-headed sensibility would have stood her in good stead over the last few days.

He looks at Red then, and nods slightly in response to Red's expression.

"You have things to talk about — I'll step outside."

"You don't have to," she protests. "It's nothing you don't know already."

Dembe smiles. "Don't worry, Elizabeth," he says quietly, releasing her hand with a pat. "I'll see you soon."

She manages to wait until he's shut the apartment door behind him before she speaks again. All her anger seems to have disappeared, but she still has a terrible need to _know._

"You can start," she says, "by telling me about my mother."

He takes a deep breath. "Short version, or long?"

Weariness tugs at her, and she thinks about everything that lies ahead. "Short," she says, "for now."

"You know that Katarina was a KGB agent."

She nods.

"Constantin wasn't entirely wrong," he says, then holds up a hand as her expression trembles. "She was _assigned_ to me, to come into my life — much like Tom came into yours. Instead, we became friends. She was pregnant when my daughter was born, and we bonded over that. Your parents did have a troubled marriage, Lizzie — Constantin was obsessively jealous, and when you were born, his possessiveness just became worse.

"Between that, the unrest in Russia, but most particularly, _you,_ Lizzie, she changed. She wanted you to have a good life, wanted to give you everything. Instead of flipping me, she switched sides herself. At least, she tried to. That night, the night of the fire — that was to be your safe house. Which…I've never failed so grievously before, or since, Lizzie, and there's nothing I can say. I still don't know for certain if Constantin followed you both, or if there was a leak on my side. And…everything just fell apart."

"But my father didn't die. Why did you lie to me, Red?" she asks, and in voicing it, feels an aching sadness at the betrayal. "How could you let me think…"

"Lizzie, no," he says hastily, unable to let her finish. "I didn't lie to you."

This just makes her sadder. "Red, honestly, there's no point in continuing now."

"I mean it," he returns, a little waspish. "I _don't lie to you._ It happened just as I told you. You shot your father, and we had to leave him behind to save ourselves, to save _you._ He was left grievously wounded in a burning house, and I heard nothing of him in the years following. I was absolutely positive he was dead."

The pain inside her eases a little. Can she believe him? He is so earnest, his eyes dark with intensity, his body curved toward hers over the table as if he can _make_ her believe if he tries hard enough.

"I didn't hear the name Alexander Kirk until…until you were already a fugitive," he continued, his voice slower, reluctant. "It wasn't the time to go into it. Constantin was clearly very careful to keep off my radar over the years. I only gained the full truth of it a short time ago, and I still don't know how he survived that night."

"Were you ever going to tell me?" she asks quietly.

He hesitates, then looks down at the table. "I…I don't know," he admits. "It never seemed to be the right time. You've already lost so much."

"I could have had more time with him," she says. "Had the chance to get to know him, at least a little."

"I'm sorry for that, Lizzie, I really am. But…" He bites his lip and reaches for her hand. She pulls back and watches him intently. "He was always going to ask too much of you."

"It's not for you to decide, though," she points out. "What's too much, and what isn't; what I can handle and what I can't. I'm not a child, Red."

"I know it," he says softly. "But I just wanted to protect you."

"You need to trust me, trust me the way you expect me to trust you."

He looks a bit surprised at that, then nods. "I'll try," he says. "Really."

She lets out a long, shuddering sigh. She moves so she sits beside him, and rests her head on his shoulder. He curls an arm around her, and lets his cheek press gently against the top of her head.

They sit, for a long, quiet moment of communion.

"I'm not angry," she says, letting the familiar warmth of him soak into her, hoping she can hold on to it. "Really; I think I understand. I just…need some time."

He feels a frisson of alarm, and shifts so that she has to lift her head and look him in the eye.

"What do you mean?" he asks, keeping his voice calm, striving not to demand.

She steels herself not to give in. "Some time alone," she says. "I need to work through everything that's happened. And I need to do it on my own. I can't lean on you for everything — I need to find my own way."

He wants to protest, to brush away her determination, but he doesn't. He understands the compulsion — who better than he? How can he _not_ comprehend the desire to take control of one's own life?

"I understand," he says, and relief washes through her. "I just hope that…what happened in Venice…"

She flushes, and looks away. It seems like weeks ago rather than days, but she remembers with perfect clarity the hot anger, the urgent need, the compulsive fear. "I was pretty angry," she agrees. "The thought of being your…I don't know, mistress? In the eyes of the world, even if just a small part of it, it wasn't pleasant. I know we're just playing here, but it never felt cheap. Not until I heard you and that man, laughing over us."

He's immeasurably glad she isn't looking at him, because he isn't playing anymore, and he knows that it shows on his face.

"I sincerely hope that you know that I never intended for you to feel that way," he says, his voice rich with sincerity. "It isn't cheap to me, Elizabeth, it… _you_ mean a great deal to me."

She thinks she'd already known that, knew him well enough for that, but it makes her happier to hear it. "That's why I'm still talking to you," she says lightly. "But it also made me feel vulnerable, and afraid — which made me angrier. It puts both of us at risk, Red," and now she does look at him, beseeching. "How much did you have to put aside to come and take me back from Kirk? And he wasn't even a threat to me."

"Honestly, Lizzie," he says, "that's been a risk since the moment I walked into your life. It may be slightly larger, now, but the difference is negligible. At least, to me."

She takes his hand. She wonders if she should tell him how even though all of what she just said is true, none of it is the real reason she ran from him. That she'd been afraid, not just of what might happen, but of what _is_ happening, of the intensity of what lay between them. In this moment of honesty, it seems like maybe she could.

But before she can speak again, he's squeezing her hand and standing up, pulling on his jacket.

"Let me know," he says quietly. "When you want to see me again."

"Thank you," she says, and smiles. "I promise, I'll call you."

He looks at her upturned face, bends swiftly to kiss her lightly. Before he gives in entirely, and talks her into bed, he turns and leaves.

She watches him stride away from her, and resists the urge to call out and stop him. She knows she's right, that she needs time to come to terms with her new knowledge, with the events of the past few days. Time to examine her relationship with Red, to be sure of herself.

All the same, when the door clicks shut again, she wonders at the way a heart can heal and hurt at the same time.

* * *

It's been two weeks, two long, ridiculous weeks. He'd promised to wait, and he has. He's busied himself with work, rebuilding connections, taking meetings, handling a couple of shipments.

None of it distracted him. He was on the point of breaking down and going to her, when he finally got her call the previous night.

 _Will you come and see me?_ _Tomorrow morning? First thing?_

So here he is, the early-morning sun a rosy glow, the air crisp and cool. He strolls up to the low-rise apartment building, entering the quiet lobby and pushing Lizzie's buzzer.

No answer. Not the second time, either.

He pushes down the instinctive panic and checks his watch — it's still early enough that she might be out for a run. He knows she picked the habit up after her time as a fugitive. The freedom to be out and about when she chooses seems to be just as valuable to her as the exercise and release of tension. He thinks he'll wander through the woody little park across the street, remembering that she has mentioned using its winding paths before.

It's sunny but still cool, especially with the shade of the trees, and it's shaping up to be a lovely morning. He starts to plan as he wanders.

 _Maybe she'd like a day out. Some time together to talk it all out. I could take her to…_

His thoughts stop abruptly, as do his steps; mind wiped clean and clear as glass. Heading toward him along the dirt path is Elizabeth, moving at a fair clip but somehow still exuding happy relaxation. She's wearing some sort of tights that end halfway up her thighs, and a slim pale tank that's dark with perspiration and clinging to her lovely slight curves. Just the first glimpse of her, healthy and bright and _safe_ , makes everything loosen inside him.

 _Oh, he has missed her._

As she comes closer, her ponytail flying cheerfully behind her, he can see the glow of exertion dewy across her collarbone, at her temples where escaping tendrils of hair curl damply. Her breasts shift enticingly with the movements of her body in a gentle bounce; he can hear her panting breaths as she comes closer, slowing her pace and offering him a smile.

It's the most painfully exquisite picture of everything he never knew he wanted, and he aches with it.

His body responds with alacrity; he's hard in an instant, cock pushing against his zipper painfully, walking to meet her with a newly purposeful step. He can't think straight, mind fogging over — doesn't _need_ to think as he reaches out to take her by the shoulders.

Her greeting is cut off before it really gets started, as he crushes his mouth to hers with the ferocity of the starving. She makes a small noise of surprise, but then her arms wind around his neck, one hand coming up to scratch through the short hairs at the nape. She's kissing him back eagerly, _thank god, thank god,_ pressing herself against him and murmuring soft sounds of welcome into his mouth.

Lost to need, to the strident demands of his body, he starts walking her backwards, not letting go of her mouth, arms holding her fiercely close. Off the path, they need to be off the path — he winds them through the trees as long as he can stand it, then circles around so they are blocked from any potential view.

He needs to breathe; he breaks their kiss to lick along her jawline and nuzzle at her neck, the salt of her sweat clean against his tongue. Her hand presses against the back of his head as she gasps her own breath back.

"Red," she manages. "What–"

"I'm sorry," he manages, "I just…I need…" He's aching and desperate and needs to be inside her with a violence that almost frightens him.

"It's okay," she whispers against his cheek. "I want you, too."

"Up," he orders, voice hoarse and low; he can't manage any more words.

And she _does_ understand — when he slips his hands down under her and lifts, she tightens her arms and winds her legs around his hips with a quick hop and a shimmy; pushes herself against his cock with a flirtatious laugh.

He takes her mouth again with a growl, walking forward a few steps to brace her against the nearest tree trunk. She presses back against the bark to support herself; he bends his head into the little space between them to put his mouth on her breast, soaking through her shirt. He licks and suckles and shapes; absorbing her taste and feel, the small, gasping sounds of pleasure she makes.

She missed him, missed this, _this,_ this consuming touch-taste fever of feeling. His greedy hunger is intoxicating; it feeds her own and makes her want desperately in return. She forgets everything, _everything,_ but the immediacy of him against her. Did she have things to say? Are they outside? She couldn't care less.

She urges his head back up and their lips meet with a near-painful crush; then they simply devour one another, all tongues and teeth, heat and need. He pushes forward, pressing his body into hers; her arms slide down around his back and pull him close, closer. His only thought is to be inside her; he moves his hands between them to yank at the waistband of her shorts.

But there's no room, and he can't possibly move away from her. Her hands are wound tightly in the back of his jacket; her tongue is twining wickedly with his and she tastes like apples. Drowning in lust, he shoves his fingers into the center seam, fists his hands into the fabric on either side, and tears, ripping the soft material right down the middle.

He fumbles with his slacks, freeing himself with a heavy groan at the touch of his own hand. His other hand busies itself at her center; she's bare beneath her tights and she's drenched and hot and pulsing. She rides his fingers for a minute, two, moaning into him, trembling with urgency, then breaks their kiss to plead.

"Now, Red, _now_."

He has to bend his knees a bit to get the angle right; then he thrusts into her with enough force to push her upward against the tree. She cries out, pleasure and pain meeting in need. He presses his forehead into her shoulder, just for a moment, to collect himself, leaning his weight on his hands on either side of her. But she can't wait — she bends her head to trace a hot line of kisses up the side of his neck; bites his earlobe just as she flexes her hips to take him further in.

The tenuous threads of his control snap, and he drives into her like a man possessed. _Lizzie_ , he whispers into her mouth, over and over, _Lizzie, Lizzie_. She's shuddering beneath him as her body thuds rhythmically with the force of his thrusts; she tears her mouth free his to draw in deep lungfuls of air. Her hands are under his jacket now, tangled in his shirt, fingertips digging into his back, struggling for grip.

She's noisy, though he can tell she's trying not to be, gasping out little choked back cries and disjointed words, _harder_ and _faster_ and _more_ and _don't stop, don't stop._ He feels the orgasm start in a hot flash at the base of his spine, then it spears through him like lightning. He lets go in long, agonizingly pleasurable pulses that darken his vision; with one last cry, she tumbles over with him, her core throbbing around him, tight and wet.

They stay pressed together for long moments, breathing harsh in the cool morning air. Her arms loop limp around him; his layers of clothing feel heavy and overdone.

"Good lord," he finally manages, words damp against her skin. "Lizzie…words fail me."

She laughs, shifting to rub her cheek affectionately against his. "That'll be the day," she says.

He laughs too, because she's right, because he feels ridiculously good, because she's so warm and soft and real against him. He moves his arms and steps back, enough so she has room to breathe, to drop her legs and stand, if she wants. His cock slips out of her wetly, and she makes a little sound; buries her face in his neck to suck her mark back into his scar.

Together, they get her unwound and on her feet. She's more than a little unsteady, and she supports herself with a hand on his chest, grinning at him. There appear to be bits of fabric left behind on the tree trunk, with a couple of dark, damp marks… _god,_ he thinks, _is that blood?_

"Lizzie," he says worriedly. "Are you hurt?"

"Oh," she says, surprised. She takes a minute to roll her shoulders and flex the muscles in her back. Then she shrugs. "Feels like a few scratches, that's all — _I'm_ a little more worried about the state of my shorts."

She looks down at herself, then back at him with a raised eyebrow. He looks down, and sees the front of her tights gaping wide, dangling loosely from the intact elastic, everything from waist to her neat thatch of curls clearly visible in the sun.

"At least they were old ones," she says wryly.

"Sorry about that," he says awkwardly. (He isn't, really.) "Here."

He reaches out and pulls the two pieces of fabric together with a stretch, managing to twist and tie the edges into a neat knot.

"Seriously?" she asks him, laughing. "There _will_ be people in the lobby, the elevator. Do you call that dressed?"

He has to admit, he doesn't, and his cock twitches again in response.

"Do you want my jacket?" he offers dubiously.

She just looks at him.

He sighs, and glances around quickly. He peels off his jacket and hands it to her.

"Red, I really–"

"Just wait a minute," he says, loosening his tie and pulling it over his head. "Hold this too, would you?"

He unbuttons and removes his vest, then his dress shirt, handing everything to her to drape neatly over her arm. She watches him in some bemusement, then smiles when he's down to just his clean white undershirt. He tugs it over his head and gives it to her.

"This might suit you better," he says cheerfully.

She's looking at his bare chest, damp and darkened with perspiration, like she wants to take a few more bites out of him.

"And here's me with my hands full," she says regretfully, and winks.

He laughs, and snatches back his dress shirt.

"Hands to yourself, woman," he retorts teasingly. "Have you no sense of decency?"

That sets her off, and she stands there laughing helplessly while he gets himself redressed and more or less acceptable. She collects herself while he's putting on his jacket, enough to pull his shirt on and brush off the back of her tights briskly. He thinks it doesn't help at all; that her flushed face, the marks he left on her neck, and the oversized shirt are a perfect picture of debauchery.

He wants her all over again, and feels ridiculous. And he thinks he's missing something…

"Hmm," he says thoughtfully. "Where's my hat?"

"Um…somewhere back there," she says, flushing a little as she waves a hand toward the path. "I…might have knocked it off."

"Under the circumstances," he says dryly, "I can't say that I mind."

She rolls her eyes. "We'll find it," she says, and starts walking.

It isn't far — what seemed like miles on the way in was really only a matter of feet, and he thinks they are lucky that no one happened by. She bends to pick his fedora off the ground, brushing it off gently before she turns and places it neatly on his head, adjusting the brim with a smile.

"There," she says softly. "Good as new."

As they walk back to her building through the trees, she takes his hand absentmindedly. And they stroll along, chatting amicably, holding hands like lovers. If he feels a little twinge of longing around his heart, it doesn't need to affect anyone but him.


	12. XII: Shadowed

**A/N:** A lot of things happen here, but it felt necessary to move things forward. I hope it doesn't get too muddled…

* * *

They make it to her apartment without any undue attention — although old Mrs Krenski from two doors down gives her a sly wink as they pass in the hallway. She can just _tell_ Red is suppressing a laugh, and squeezes his hand firmly to keep him quiet.

Loose with exercise and satisfaction, brimming with endorphins, she feels herself soften further as they turn the corner and she sees the roses in front of her door.

"You didn't have to keep doing that, you know," she says. "You didn't have to do it at all, really. I told you I wasn't angry."

She turns to him with a smile, ready to thank him in any case, but his face is still and cool, his eyes gone green and hard as glass. They've both stopped walking, a few feet from the door. The fingers of his free hand are twitching against his leg — a sure danger sign.

"Red?" she says hesitantly. "What's wrong?"

"I didn't leave you flowers, Lizzie," he says, releasing her hand and crouching down to examine them. "Or anything else."

"Oh, but…" She doesn't know quite what the little drop in her heart means.

He looks at her over his shoulder, his face still serious, but a fraction warmer.

"You asked me for time," he says. "I gave it to you, completely."

That makes her feel better — quite good, actually — except for the little quiver of worry it causes.

He stands, the flowers in his hand. "Let's go inside," he says. "I think I'd like to hear all about it."

* * *

He watches her move around her small kitchen, starting coffee and fetching water for them both. He thinks only because he knows her so well, has watched her so closely, can he see the anxiety in the slightly jerky movements of her hands.

He crosses the living room to look out onto the street — it's quiet, and he doesn't see a vehicle he recognizes, other than his own. He walks back to lean against the breakfast bar, frowning down at the lush bouquet he'd left there. The hot flash of jealousy that had struck him when he'd first seen them has been cooled by her clear belief they'd come from him.

She turns to him now, offering him a mug of coffee and a serious expression.

"So," he says, working at keeping his tone even. "Offerings at your doorstep. What else has there been?"

She shrugs, looking down at the counter between them and picking at the wrapping around the roses, all the sweetness gone from them.

"Other flowers," she says, "twice. Once it was a book that I've been wanting to read. A couple of days ago, a bag of fresh croissants."

"Did you eat any?" he demands, his voice tight and harsh.

She looks up again, unnerved by his tone. "Of course I did," she says. "I thought they were from you — they even came from that bakery we meet at sometimes, the one on 14th."

"Someone's been watching you," he says, furious. "Stalking you." He plucks a small white envelope from among the blooms and offers it to her. "There's a note."

"There always is," she says, taking the envelope and slipping out its card. She hands it to him with a shrug.

 _Thinking of you,_ it says — printed by the florist, it looks like.

"The card is always the same — it's partly why I thought it must be you. Because maybe…" she hesitates, looking away. "Maybe you missed me."

His face calms, and he reaches out to rub a thumb along her cheekbone. "I think I've made it clear that I did, very much," he says softly. "But _I_ would write my own notes."

"So, whoever left them didn't want me to recognize the handwriting," she says slowly. "It's someone I know."

"That's what I think," he says.

"And why it had to be you," she says, tone laden with misery. "Who else is there that cares?"

 _Oh, Lizzie,_ he thinks, his heart cracking for her — for her loneliness, for the resigned sadness in her damp pansy eyes. He walks around the island and tugs her gently into his arms, holding her close.

"We both know who it is," he says quietly. "The real question is, what does he want?"

She steps back so she can look into his face. He doesn't _look_ angry, but she knows he is, from the set of his mouth.

"You think it's Tom," she says. "Or whatever he's calling himself now. Why on earth would he bother?"

"I think he imagines he's in love with you. I think he wants it all back," Red says thoughtfully. "Just like you do. Because the pretend life was so much better than real life has turned out to be."

"Just like I _did,_ " she corrects, stung. "I don't want lies anymore, Red."

He smiles at her, a true smile. "I'm glad to hear it, Lizzie," and he _is,_ so much so it surprises him a little. He gives her back a little rub, intending to bolster, but is stopped by a flash of guilt when she winces.

"Tom is a problem that can wait," he says. "I'd forgotten that you need tending to, sweetheart, I'm sorry."

"I'm fine," she says absently. She rests her head against his chest for a moment, because the thought of another argument with Tom is exhausting, and Red is safe and warm and near.

"Nonsense," he answers briskly. "I promise to be gentle," he says, and she laughs, like he wanted her to.

And he starts to make plans as she leads him down the hall, plans to deal with Tom Keen once and for all.

* * *

The bathroom is all corners, and too awkward to manage in, so he shoos her off to the bedroom while he collects what he needs. He's left his jacket behind, and rolls up his shirt sleeves to wash his hands carefully and thoroughly.

She's sitting on the edge of her bed when he comes in, holding his undershirt over her lap, still wearing her thin tank.

He places his supplies on the nightstand and beckons her over. She shifts to sit beside him, feeling oddly awkward. She hasn't been able to take her shirt off. It's ridiculous — he's seen her naked more than once now, has looked and touched and tasted every corner of her body.

But here, in her own small space, with the sun flooding the room, she's…nervous? Vulnerable, with the thought of being watched. The ghostly spectre of her erstwhile husband hovers there, unwanted. She wants to laugh at herself, but her throat feels closed, her chest tight.

"Turn around, sweetheart," he says, and his voice is full of gentle understanding. "It's just us here," he continues, his voice calm and low, quieting her nerves. "You're beautiful in the sun, Lizzie; it makes your skin go translucent, like the inside of a shell."

She lets her eyes close as she turns to offer him her back; lets herself sit limp and still as he efficiently strips off her shirt. The rumble of his voice, the sweetness of his words have lulled her, so she can sit easy under his care. She lets the pressure of his hands on her, the warmth of the water he uses, the even huff of his breath, all act together to soothe her the rest of the way.

He keeps his touch light, but thorough — there are really only a few patches of roughened skin, but there is a slice or two where something clearly caught.

"There are a couple of places that need disinfecting. Hold still, please."

She tenses a little, but obeys. He tucks her tail of hair over her shoulder, appreciating the shiver that ripples over her. He soaks a wad of gauze in peroxide, then, steadying her with his free hand firmly on her back, he presses the pad to the worst of the abrasions and wipes it clean.

"Ah, that stings," she hisses out. "You said it wouldn't hurt."

"Don't be a baby," he returns, amused.

But he leans in close, all the same, and blows lightly over the scrape. Her skin prickles in response, her own breath catching audibly in her throat. He kisses the spot, feather light. She makes a small hum of sound, and he watches as her fingers flex in the sheets.

He gives the other two nasty looking spots the same treatment, enjoying her reaction, the way her spine curves toward him. The way her skin rises to his touch; the way her colour warms beneath his hands.

He lets his fingers trail over the unbroken skin; puts his lips to the base of her neck, the slope of her shoulder, the hinge of her jaw. Still light, barely touching. His hands skim over the entrancing lines of her body — the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip.

He thinks he could spend forever just touching her, absorbing her shapes and textures. The soft places, ones that beg for his mouth; the hidden nooks that make her jump or quiver or moan. The planes of her ribcage beckon his hands inward; the swell of her breasts makes his fingers tense and pull her closer.

Up, now, to cup her cheek and turn her toward him, to kiss her lips, sweet and long. She still tastes faintly of salt and air; her mouth is soft and already parted for him.

His hands leave trails of sensation behind them, until her entire torso tingles with it. Then he kisses her, lush, full, with just a faint edge of his usual heat. Her system thrums with need for him — _how, how can she want so much?_

She turns the rest of the way around, straddling his lap. Her hands come up, one rubbing at the scrub of his hair and sliding around the back of his head, the other working at the knot of his tie. He is still blazing trails over her skin, faster now and a bit rougher.

He breaks away from her mouth to work his way down the side of her neck, focusing on the pressure point behind her jaw that always makes her moan. He knows her body so well already, but it's not routine, it's a fresh madness every time they come together.

His buttons are next; she doesn't rush, just slips them free, one by one. His breath shudders when her fingers graze his chest and he deepens their kiss. She stumbles when she gets down to his vest, and laughs, pulling back a little so she can take him apart.

"So many pieces to you," she murmurs, knowing she means more than one thing. "You wear these suits like armour," she continues, as she proceeds to peel him out of it, piece by piece. "They're a shield, just like everything about you. This façade you wear, the comfortable middle-aged businessman. When really, underneath all your soft spots you've muscles like iron and a mind like Machiavelli."

He laughs, tugging the elastic band from her hair and running his hands through it over and over as she slides off his lap to divest him of his shoes and socks.

"I'm flattered, I think," he says. "But you're no less a puzzle, sweetheart."

"I'm an open book," she says with a laugh. "Stand up," she adds, as her hands busy themselves with his belt buckle.

In moments, he's naked, and since she's right there, she can't resist leaning in for a long, hot lick of him. His fists clench in her hair and she grins against his hip.

"You taste like _us,"_ she says. "I like it. And I believe I owe you one."

He struggles against the urge to thrust into her mouth as deep as he can, but wanting all of her more.

"You do," he says gutturally. "But not now, not here."

He shifts his hands to grip her arms and yank, and then she's standing in front of him, wriggling out of the ruin of her running shorts. They're bare inches apart, and he thrills to the warmth of her, to the flush that spreads over her as his cock swells between them.

"Lay down," she says, nudging at him until he's stretched lengthwise on her bed, watching her through hooded eyes. "This is ridiculous, you know," she adds as she slides along his body, smooth as silk.

"Lizzie," he breathes, as her breasts brush against his chest, as she settles over him, warm and wet. Her mouth is fierce on his, now, eager and swift. She's teasing relentlessly, sliding back and forth along his length in deliberate undulations.

"What," he manages, in between kisses, "is ridiculous about this?"

"The _wanting,_ " she gasps, already short of breath, desire a heavy weight in her belly. "The urgency of needing you. Honestly, I mean, I'm still slick inside, I can feel you there, but tit could just as easily been weeks ago. I came to you for relief, and instead I get obsession." She can't stop talking, even though she knows that she should. "Every time just makes me want more, more of you, of this — it's a…compulsion, an addiction."

He nearly trembles with the relief that floods him with her admission — it's not all he wants from her, not by far, but it's far more than she'd ever been willing to give before.

"Perhaps it's more than you thought it would be," he says carefully, framing her face in his hands to anchor it above his own. "Would that be so bad?"

"I…" She feels like she's at the edge of a cliff. "I'm not looking for more," she says, pulling free of his hands and nuzzling into the crook of his neck, hiding.

"That doesn't mean it isn't there," he points out, letting his hands wander. "But don't overthink. Take what you need, Elizabeth, and enjoy it, enjoy _us._ Let that be enough, for now."

She sighs, relieved, and rises to fit them together, engulfing him in a quick push that makes him groan and reach for her.

"No," she says, needing it now, what control she can muster. "Just lie still," she says, grabbing his wrists and pinning them to the mattress on either side of his head. "Lie still and take it."

His hips flex under her, thrusting him deeper, making her gasp. "I'll try," he says, exhilarated. "I'm all yours, sweetheart."

Need fills her, blinds her; she rides eagerly, taking everything he offers, and then more. He follows her rise and fall as best he can, bracing his feet against the mattress since he can't use his hands. She covers him in heat, surrounds him until she is all he can think of, all he can see. He's drowning in her.

She moves with a keen determination, sitting tall over him like a goddess. He yearns to touch, to grip her in his hands, but every jerk of his hands under hers just makes her lean in harder, a wicked smile gleaming.

Finally, they are parallel, and the picture she makes on her hands and knees, taking her due from him, sears itself into his brain. Her pace is faster now, her breath short, biting her bottom lip as she starts to curve away again. He captures one swaying breast with his lips, thrilling to the flavour of her, to the soft fullness in his mouth.

 _With teeth,_ just a hiss of sound, then her rhythm falters as he obeys with a quick nip, then a longer, sucking bite. She's slicker in an instant, so wet now that he almost slips out of her as she rises again.

Her legs tighten against his hips and she finally lets go of his wrists to lean right back, seeking the right pressure, driving them both to near frenzy.

Freed, he pushes up to meet her, arms going around her to hold them together sitting up, skin, sliding, sweaty and hot. His big hands fasten on her, greedy now, encompassing. She cries out with pleasure as the change in angle gives her just what she needs; the orgasm has her a moment later, every breath a moan of sound, her whole body throbbing as everything goes starry.

He flips her over before she's through it, shrugging one shoulder under her leg and shoving upward. She utters an _oh_ of surprise, then her nails are scraping his skin, her heel digging into his back. He moves inside her to the pounding beat of his blood, fast and hard.

She rolls into another climax, shocked and nearly numb with the overload of sensation. She has no voice, just sobbing gasps against his chest as he strains once, twice, then releases within her in a series of pulses that leave them both shaking with the sweet agony of it.

He collapses into her, muscles gone to water, his whole being thrumming with ecstasy. He buries his face in her hair, focusing on continuing to breathe; grunts as she fastens hard onto the scar on his neck.

Her hands rub over him now, soothing even as they tremble. He can feel the quick rise and fall of her chest as she regains herself, the rapid beat of her heart against his own; thinks he should move and make her more comfortable.

He manages to shift a leg before he's gone, dropped like a stone into a dead sleep.

* * *

He comes awake slowly at first, then the unfamiliarity of his surroundings jerks him alert. It only takes one deep inhale for his nerves to relax, as Lizzie's warm scent filters through. She's gone from the room, though, the sheets beside him cool and empty. He has a faint sleepy memory of her urging him onto his side, laughing and kissing him even as she pushed him over.

He wonders if she slept beside him at all, and wishes he'd stayed awake to savour the feel of her cradled against him. He sits up with a long roll of his neck, then a smile slowly spreads as he spots the end of the bed.

She's left him a fluffy towel and washcloth, a new toothbrush resting on top. On the chair kitty-corner to bed is his suit, brushed clean and draped smooth and unwrinkled. She's let him into her home, has taken some care with him — these are positive steps, he thinks, and strolls into her shower in excellent form.

When he's clean and dressed, he wanders to the living area in search of her. She's on the phone, talking quickly, back to him as she stares out the window. She glances over her shoulder at the sound of his steps, then looks away, her face serious.

She's done by the time he's settled himself on her couch, and she curls into an easy chair facing him. He looks relaxed now, his face calm, even happy. He smiles at her, the genuine beam that makes his eyes crinkle, and always makes her smile back.

"Anyone important?" he asks lightly.

"Cooper," she replies. "Checking in." She looks away uncomfortably. "I told him I haven't heard from you since you left for Europe. I just…I'm not sure what I want anymore."

His insides shiver uncomfortably, and he raises an eyebrow at her.

"It's just...I was so _tired_ after I was exonerated, and I just thought, well, now everything can go back to normal. But of course, it _isn't_ normal, everything's different. And I can't help but wonder if I even want it back anymore. And honestly, Red, when will I get a _break?"_

"We haven't been overrun with blacklisters lately," he says slowly, unsure.

"Maybe not," she replies. "But do you know how many car accidents I've been in since I met you? Let's not even mention concussions, since I have no idea how many I've had now anyway. Honestly, that can't be good for me. It's a lucky the FBI has decent health insurance, that's for sure.

"I'm not sure how much more I can take. I'm not sure I want to find out."

He's awash in guilt by the time she's done, her voice shaking and her face drawn.

"I'm sorry," he says simply. There's no point in trying to rationalize; he knew what he'd be bringing to her life from the start.

"I know I've helped do good things," she says. "But there are other ways that I can accomplish good in the world. If…if you'll let me."

"Lizzie, I…" He's nonplussed, at a true loss for words.

She leans forward, eager now, words tumbling over themselves. "I know you brought me into this to help me, to show me the truth about Tom, to be in my life. But we don't need the task force for that now, do we? We're…friends at the very least — I won't walk away from you. You could go on with the blacklist without me, I know you work well with Samar. And I could, well…did Dembe tell you that we'd talked?"

He jerks a bit in surprise at the last. "No, he certainly didn't."

"He said he'd leave it to me, but you're so close, I wasn't sure." She flushes a little. "After Kirk died, I found out…well…he left me some money. A _lot_ of money, actually. It's not the cleanest money, maybe, but if I use it to do something right, something _real_ — that's not terrible, is it?"

He laughs at that. "I'm likely the wrong person to ask, Lizzie, but I'd agree with you."

"And I do actually have a degree as a therapist," she continues, "I thought I could put myself and Kirk's money to work in Dembe's foundation. I think helping child victims of crime and abuse and war, it would be the best thing I could do."

"That's not easy work, either," he says seriously. "But it's an an excellent operation, and you'd certainly be an asset." He sighs, because it isn't what he wants — he wants her with him, a partner, a fighter. But the light in her eyes, her impassioned tones, they can't be denied. "I imagine Harold and I can work something out."

"Red," she says, her whole face shining. " _Thank you._ And I can still consult for you, if you need me."

"You won't find it particularly easy to get rid of me," he replies, half joking, half warning.

"I don't want to," she says, reaching out to grip his hands in hers, hard. "We'll be okay."

"Okay," he echoes, squeezing back. Love surges in him, and he blinks it back, keeps it in.

"I promise," she says.

He tries to believe her.


	13. XIII: Fracture

He strolls out of the elevator, cheerful smile pasted firmly on his face. He isn't looking forward to the conversation he has to have, but knows his feelings are easy to hide with enough swaggering confidence — and he has that in plenty. With Dembe's ever-comforting solid presence behind him, he winks roguishly at Aram and is about to say something charmingly rude to Ressler when he spots Elizabeth.

Just outside the door to Cooper's office, her face soft and relieved, she turns to share a warm embrace with her now-former boss. They speak quietly for another moment, the older man's hand on her shoulder.

She trips down the stairs, offering Red a small wave as she heads for Aram's desk. He glances over his shoulder briefly, and Dembe nods slightly in response, taking a comfortable stance against a pillar where he can both see Cooper's office and keep an eye on Liz.

"Well, Harold," Red says as he climbs the stairs. "It seems we have a few things to discuss, you and I. And then I thought we could have a little fun."

Cooper just rolls his eyes and turns his back, returning to his office with a heavy step.

* * *

She moves uneasily around her living room, straightening and re-straightening, picking things up and moving them with no real purpose, unable to settle in spite of herself. Although her meeting with Cooper had gone unexpectedly well, his quiet understanding both a balm and a gift. Although that brief glimpse of Red had given comfort, to know that he still stands behind her, that he still has her back.

Because now she has to face Tom — _nothing easier,_ she thinks, _nothing to worry about_ — but even her mental voice is mocking her.

She isn't looking forward to the inevitable argument. To looking at the face she loved for so long, so fiercely, and trying to remember it is only a mask. To maintaining a balance, because even hate is too much to give him, because the true opposite of love is indifference.

But it's so hard.

A brisk knock at her door lets her know she is out of time to prepare, ready or not.

He's smiling when she opens the door, his expression so familiar in its happiness that it's like a physical blow.

"Liz," he says, a hand reaching out. "It's good to see you."

She pulls back to avoid his touch on her cheek, but shields it by widening the door and gesturing him inside.

"Come in," she says. "Thank you for taking the time to stop by."

"Of course, I've been wanting to talk to you, you know that. I'm sorry that we argued the last time we spoke."

She remembers his furious words and the thud of his fist against her front door, and thinks that _argued_ isn't quite the right word for it.

She walks ahead of him into the apartment and sits on the edge of her sofa, gathering herself, trying to plan her words carefully. He sits down beside her, just a shade too close.

He spots the one last rose that she kept, just for its prettiness, and his face transforms.

"You kept them," he says. "My gifts."

"Tom…" she starts, then stops. "Jacob," she says, "it doesn't mean anything. The flowers were beautiful, but you can't keep doing this. There's nothing for you here."

"You're wrong," he replies eagerly, his eyes shining. He seems so sincere that she almost wishes it were real. "My _wife_ is here; I belong with you."

" _You're_ wrong," she says simply, looking away. "About me; about everything." She resents how much it hurts to say it; she doesn't care about this man, she _doesn't._

"That's Reddington talking." His voice is dark now, anger blooming quickly. "Don't talk to me with his words."

That gets her back up, and she meets his shaded gaze with fury of her own. "Don't bring him into this — he has nothing to do with it. It's _me_ that you lied to and used and hurt."

His face softens again, and he looks genuinely repentant. "I'm sorry, Liz, I really am. It wasn't what I wanted, I swear."

"Really? You didn't seem that sorry when you beat me to a pulp and left me alone." It's not until she says it that she knew those words were still hiding inside her; that this particular wound hasn't yet healed.

"You dislocated my thumbs," he reminds her, almost flippant. "I think it was an even match. But I wasn't myself then, I was a pawn, just like you. We can make a new life _together,_ Liz. Don't you think you owe to us just to try, just to see what we could have?"

Cold, she's so cold, and she suddenly wants Reddington with her, shielding her from the necessity of reliving this pain. "No," sharp and decisive, and as cold as she feels inside, "no, I don't think I owe _you_ anything."

His eyes narrow. "That's unfair, babe," he says, coaxing, and she hates it. Has she always hated it? "You're _my wife,_ and I need you."

"But I'm _not_ your wife, not anymore," almost a scream, a purging of all the acrid emotions left inside her. "I never really was, was I? The man I married never existed." The truth spoken is so bitter she thought she might choke on it.

"He was real to me," the man beside her says. "I can be that man again. I _want_ to be that man. I love you, Liz, and I want you back. I want _us_ back."

She wants to slap him; she wants to weep. She might laugh at the sheer lunacy of the suggestion, if it didn't break her heart all over again.

"How can you want something that never really existed?" she asks.

"Because it's everything I ever wanted," he answers simply. "And I know you want it too."

Her heart trembles inside her, because he's right, he's right — at least in part. And it's tremendously difficult to look at him and shake her head.

"You're wrong," she says, and if it's a lie, it's also the truth. "I want love, marriage, a family, but only because it's what's _real._ All you can offer me is pretend."

"That was _before,"_ he insists, and leans in, taking her hand. "It won't be like that now, now I don't have to pretend. What I feel for you, it's real — there's nothing more real."

"You're in love with the _idea_ of it," she says wearily, knowing she's right. "It's tempting to believe in it, I know. But it can't ever be real. And you need to leave me alone."

She looks down at their hands, and wishes she'd never called him.

"I mean it, Jacob," she says. "No more gifts, no more following me, just…no more. " She can't make herself look up again, suddenly just immensely tired.

"Liz," he starts, closer again, too close, and his hand strokes her cheek.

But whatever he is going to say disappears in the click of the door, footsteps on wood. Then a rush of sound and movement, a flash of colour as Tom disappears from view. A familiar hand is on her now, gripping her, forcing her to look up into furious green.

She's summoned him with her thoughts, she thinks dizzily. But it seems as if it may have been a mistake.

* * *

"Really, Raymond — the Korrigan?" Dembe's voice is chastising, but there's a lick of humour behind it.

"What?" Red answers, unable to keep the grin off his face. "I thought they could use a change of pace."

Dembe laughs, shaking his head. They find Liz's door unlocked, and Red leads the way inside, shoulders still shaking with suppressed mirth.

His good humour shatters and falls away in an instant when he takes in the tableau before him. Cozy on the couch, talking quietly, intimately. The man's back is to him, but he'd know it anywhere, knows the hands touching her, taking what they have no right to take.

A flash of fear for her, replaced by rage as he takes in her flushed cheeks and downcast eyes. Fury floods him, incandescent, overwhelming, and he's across the room yanking the intruder to his feet in the space of a single breath.

"How dare you," he roars, hand hard around the scruff of the imposter's neck. "How dare you come here, like you have the right? As if you have the right to even _look_ at her?! Get out, _get out,_ and don't come here again." He shoves the startled man at Dembe, ignoring his angry protests, trusting that Dembe will take care of that end of things easily. "If you come near her again," he continues, grasping her chin to ensure she meets his gaze, "I'll kill you."

He waits, holding her in place, eyes flaming and breath heaving, until the door slams shut. He is gratified that her face shows no fear of him, only a shimmer of shock at the first of his outburst, then a surge of fire to match his own.

"What the _hell_ is your problem?" she snaps, slapping his hand away and leaping to her feet to stand toe-to-toe with him, bristling. "This is _my_ home, and _I_ choose who comes and goes, not you."

" _Why would you let him in here?"_ His rationality has disappeared. "He's dangerous; he's _stalking_ you."

"Which is why I _asked_ him here," she hurls back. "To find out what he wants. And he isn't dangerous, not to me."

He wants to shake sense into her, the red of his name blurring his vision. "You persist in seeing him as the mild-mannered school teacher, Lizzie, and he is _not that man._ Tom Keen _doesn't exist;_ he was merely a role played by a sociopath."

She's ready with a fierce retort when he releases her and continues, lower and quieter. "You have no business letting him touch you."

She hears an echo of her own weary sorry in his voice, enough so that she stops and reevaluates quickly, fighting past her temper to really look at him. Oh, he's angry all right, his face set and hard and furious. But behind it, lurking in the set of his jaw and the back of his eyes is more — there's real concern there, and more surprisingly, hurt. Her heart trembles, and she wants to wrap her arms around him, kiss the tortured look off his face, take him…

 _Oh God,_ she thinks, _what_ is _this?_ That's not what this is about between them, not this gentle emotion, this sweet swell inside her, oh no. She scrambles for her anger, and finds waiting, hunched eagerly just beneath the softer warmth. She embraces it gratefully.

"Are you _jealous,_ Red?" she taunts. " _You?_ I thought jealousy was a base emotion?"

His fury burns fiercer, harsher; her tone antagonizing him just as she'd wanted. He narrows his eyes, and wraps a hand around her neck to bring her close — not hard enough to really hurt, but enough that she can feel the imprint of his fingers in her skin.

"My concern is for your safety," he snaps. "But since you mention it — I don't like it when people break their word to me." His voice has become a deep, rough growl that makes her tingle — a little fear; a little anticipation..

"I don't remember making any promises."

"No one else," he says, an angry purr of sound. "While I'm fucking you, Lizzie, there's _no. One. Else."_ Ugly words now, rather than enticing, and it hurts more than she would have thought it could. "You _do_ remember that, I'm sure. You agreed, and I'll hold you to it. Or are we done, you and I?"

Her anger twists in the face of an unpleasant shimmer of feelings that she can't name — won't name. She wouldn't let the stranger who'd been her husband touch her again for any price, and she certainly isn't ready for whatever it is between she and Red to end. But...she isn't ready to capitulate either, can't just give Reddington the upper hand.

 _He doesn't own me,_ she thinks fiercely, uncomfortably aware of a hot dampness between her legs that belies her thoughts. She yanks out of his grip, wincing at the wrench of her neck.

"Maybe I need some convincing," she says coolly. "Why should I put up with _you_ instead of getting what I need somewhere else?"

He can _hear_ his control snap, sharp and clean inside him, and his hands are back on her in flash, gripping with painful intensity.

"You're _mine,"_ he snarls, lost, lost. "And I don't share."

Then his mouth is over hers, hot and hard, his fingers winding tightly into her hair. She opens to him in reflex, awash with infuriated lust, fisting him hard in the ribs at the same time. He grunts heavily and grabs her offending hand in his, forcing it behind her back, which pulls their bodies together with bruising force.

His other hand is still caught tight in her hair— he clenches his fist and yanks, ignoring her pained cry to feast on her extended neck. Her breasts ache, nipples hard against his chest; she can't think, can only feel, a terrible tangle of need and anger, fear and want.

They battle, against each other, against themselves, a tussle of limbs with no control. Her free arm, flailing for purchase, hits something with a crack; the back of his leg meets the coffee table and makes him jerk against her.

She dimly registers a splintering crash just as his grip on her head loosens a touch, enough that she can twist herself around to fix her teeth in the scar on his carotid. He curses sharply and thrusts a leg between hers, hooking a foot around her ankle and tumbling them both to the floor with a thud.

His body weighs her down now, but she won't let go, her arm wrapping around his back, her hand finding skin. She's rubbing mindlessly against his broad thigh, needing, _needing,_ as he growls into her ear, breath hot and harsh. Their hands are all free now, roaming, bruising, pulling at clothing. He is so hard against her hip he feels embedded there; she has the crazed thought then when he finally pulls away he will leave a print of himself behind, a hollow place where only he will fit.

He frees himself from her teeth with violent pull and claims her mouth again. She tastes salt and metal; thinks she will drown in this kiss, which is not a caress but a branding. He is marking her as surely as the fire that left its signature on her wrist; she digs with her nails, seeking to scar him in return.

" _Raymond!"_

Dembe doesn't need to shout to be heard, and awareness returns like a slap in the face at the appalled shock in his tone.

Red pulls up and away with a horrible noise in his throat; as he slumps into her couch, she sees the blood on his neck where she has torn into him. She can see glass by her feet, where she has knocked over the vase that contained one last rose with her reaching arm.

They both pant shallowly into the still air, aroused, ashamed. His vest is missing its buttons, his tie disheveled, and her shirt is ripped at the neck. She lays on the floor with her eyes closed, wishing she could just dissolve into the floorboards.

"Elizabeth, are you all right?"

Dembe is bending over her now, taking her arm and helping her gently to her feet. His face is less inscrutable than usual, alarm and concern warring for prominence in his kind eyes. He touches her cheek delicately, and she thinks she will find a bruise there, when she dares to face herself in a mirror.

"It's okay, Dembe," she says, her own voice high and strange in her ears. "I'm not…he wasn't…I mean…"

She can't find the right words, thinks maybe they don't exist. He must see the struggle in her, because he draws her into a warm, quiet embrace. She leans in, just for a moment, taking the offered comfort although she has no right to it.

"I'll see that he leaves you be," he says. "I'm so sorry, Elizabeth."

Humiliation sweeps her and she pulls reluctantly away. "It's not like that," she murmurs, avoiding eye contact. "Please don't worry. Could you…could we just have a moment?"

He evaluates her carefully, then turns and levels his gaze at Red, who just shakes his head, his eyes closed and his face pale and drawn.

"I'll be downstairs," Dembe says. "Waiting for you, Raymond."

It's as much warning as anything — he'll be back if he has to wait too long.

* * *

As the door clicks shut behind Dembe, she drops onto to the couch beside Red with a windy sigh. Chilled again, she curls into herself, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her cheek on her knees, looking away.

A long moment of silence passes, with only the sound of their breathing disturbing the silence. Then, a slight rustle of clothing as Red shifts position.

"Lizzie," he says, and to her horror, he sounds…broken. "Elizabeth. I am so terribly sorry–"

"Please don't." She interrupts him, lifting her head and turning to look at him. "Don't apologize to me. If you think…it's not as if I wasn't right there with you, Red."

"You don't have to make excuses for me," he says heavily.

"Oh honestly," she snaps, reddening in embarrassment. "Do you want to put your hand down my pants and check?"

He chokes out a strained laugh that holds no mirth, and shakes his head wearily. "I hurt you."

"I baited you," she says equably. "And hurt you right back. Are you angry?"

"Of course not," a touch indignant now.

"Well, then. Let's just…can we just forget it? We're okay, Red, I promise." She sounds more anxious than definitive, but it's the best she can do.

He looks at her then, and the expression on his face makes her heart beat faster even as her mind recoils in nervous denial.

"Lizzie," he says, and he sounds better now, his voice rich with emotion.

"No," she says aloud, choking on her words. "Don't…don't say anything, just don't. I can't…Red, don't."

He narrows his eyes in evaluation. "What are you so afraid of?"

"Do you really have to ask?" she answers, fighting back tears with desperate control. "I can't trust myself; I have nothing to give. Look what happened last time I thought I could lo–lo–"

She can't even say it, and she despises herself. She remembers another time, a crisp, cold night, the terror at the thought of losing him, the heartrending depth of his self-loathing.

"I care about you," she says earnestly, clutching his hands in hers, hoping it's enough. "It's not…I'm not…" There's no good way to say what she means. "Don't turn away," she says instead, clinging hard.

He closes his eyes briefly, biting his cheek. With slow, careful movements, he pulls his hands free and cradles her face between them; she feels almost faint with relief. Then he's leaning in and his mouth touches hers, gently at first, but deepening quickly.

She waits for the flood of heat, but instead he kisses her with a long, bone-melting sweetness that tells her everything she was trying to deny; that destroys all her barriers with the gentlest of pushes. She curls her hands into fists, so she doesn't reach out and anchor herself with him, so she doesn't betray herself.

When at last he pulls away, he starts to say something, but stops without a word. He only smiles at her, more music to tuck away into her heart; reaches out and lets his fingers trail through her hair.

"Don't go," she says, so softly it's more a brush of air than a sound. But he rises without another word and walks away, stopping briefly before he's out of sight.

"If I were a better man," he says, low and heavy so that she can barely hear him with his back still to her. "I'd exit your life, let you go so you can find the happiness you deserve. But I…I can't, I don't have the strength. I'm sorry, Elizabeth."

Tears finally win, streaking silently down her face as her front door clicks shut behind him.

Despite his words, she wonders if she'll ever see him again.


	14. XIV: Accord

Antsy. That's really the only word for it, he thinks, for the constant sense of unease, of _not-right,_ that has been shadowing him since he last saw her. He has stayed away a week, waiting for her, for her to come to him when she is ready.

If it isn't soon, he'll have to lose the battle — though hopefully not the war — and go to her, just so he can focus again. This separation, right on the heels of the previous two weeks, is making him edgy and irritable. His mask fits poorly these days.

Suddenly aware that the room is waiting for him to speak, he looks up from where he lounges easily against the cage of the stairwell and shrugs.

"I've given you everything you need to find the Korrigan," he says coolly. "If you still can't...lay your hands on her, Donald, that's your problem, not mine.

"Now, I really must be off; I have a million better things to do than sit here chatting with you."

He's on his feet and at the elevator before Ressler has gathered his wits enough to call out. He turns, one eyebrow raised, and waits.

"Is she really not coming back?" Ressler asks quietly. "Keen, is she gone for good?"

Red shrugs in return. "That's what she said," he answers. "It's not like she worked here anymore anyway."

The other man's face is a study of resentment, but he turns his back without another word, and Red has to admire his restraint.

He winks at Samar to make her scowl, and then strides into the elevator, eager to be above ground again and free of the dim weight of the Post Office.

He has grown to truly despise its confines, particularly in the last few months. As they rise to ground level, he toys absently with the thought of disappearing, and wonders if she'd go with him. The realist within laughs at him, and the rain that greets him suits his heaviness of spirit.

Dembe tucks a phone away inside his jacket and opens the car door for him silently. He slides in and settles with a sigh, mind searching to occupy itself with something other than the elusive Elizabeth.

He thinks instead of Dembe, of how angry the other man had been — and how fortunate he is to have this one person he can trust absolutely, that he can show all his weaknesses to without fear.

 _Raymond,_ what happened? _What were you thinking?_

 _It's not what it looked like.._ (A feeble response, but the only one he had.)

 _Isn't it? You weren't punishing her, for allowing Jacob Phelps to remain in her life?_

 _I…_ (Was that it, after all?) _I can't let her go, especially to him. I love her, Dembe. What can I do?_

That hadn't been the end of it, of course, but it had been a bridge to understanding — love, after all, is the great mediator. It had been helpful to have Dembe's dispassionate view of things to ameliorate his own, to have a sounding board here, as in all other things.

He tips his head back and lets his eyes droop, savouring the second rush of cool air as the other door opens...but a shock of alertness spears through him with the fresh scent of her and he turns in surprise to meet her solemn blue gaze.

* * *

The hot tea isn't helping to keep her warm, as she wraps and unwraps her fingers around the paper cup. She stares absently out the window from her counter perch, not that there's anything to look at — by necessity, the Post Office is in a quiet industrial neighbourhood with nothing at all interesting about it.

She rethinks her decision to come here again, for the umpteenth time — maybe things are better as they are, maybe she can really have a true fresh start now, if she leaves it _all_ behind her. But her walls have stayed broken and scattered since that last revealing kiss, and Red's absence has left an aching empty space in her life that she doesn't want to keep.

Finally, Dembe's text comes, and she slips out of the near-empty café and around the corner to spot him across the alley, behind the ubiquitous black Mercedes, just shutting the door behind Red.

As she dashes across the narrow street, he straightens and watches her, face still and expressionless. She knows Red spoke to him, finally, about their relationship; she had too, in furious embarrassment. He gave her a quiet acceptance that meant everything, although she knows he doesn't fully approve.

"Thanks for this," she says quietly, one hand lightly gripping the roof of the car. "How much time can you give me?"

"My errand should take about 45 minutes," Dembe answers. "Do you want the keys?"

She shakes her head. "I just need to get back on track with him, and we don't need to go anywhere for that." She doesn't want to anyway, she's all nerves and the privacy of the car offers a small comfort. "See you in a bit then?"

He inclines his head, then hesitates. "I know you see Raymond as a hard man," he says quietly. "And in many ways he is, has had to be. But in his heart… Please, tread carefully, Elizabeth."

Startled, she just stares at him for a blank moment, then manages a nod. He smiles faintly, then disappears around the corner with long, purposeful strides.

She takes a deep breath to reorient herself, then opens the rear door and slips inside the car, warmth rising to greet her. She just has time to start to think how tired he looks before his head rises in a snap to stare at her with shocked grey eyes.

"Hi," she says, a little stupidly, somehow unprepared although this was her idea.

"Elizabeth," he says gravely, expression calm and smooth again, eyes gone flat, hiding. "What brings you here?"

"I got tired of waiting for you," she says, and smiles at him, absurdly happy just to be with him again. "I thought…" She had thought over what to say and do so carefully, and now it all flies out the window in the face of her need. "You said that you weren't walking away, but…you stayed away after all."

She trails off, wanting him to say something, to do something other than watch her inscrutably. He just closes his eyes briefly in that pained way he has, as if he is willing reality to be different when he opens them again. But then his expression breaks.

"I wanted you to come to me," he admits, looking away, his voice low and heavy. "So I'd know that you really wanted me here, in your life."

This gift of vulnerability means more to her than the words, and warms her, reassures her that she was right to seek him out. She slides along the seat so she's close enough to press a kiss to his cheek.

"Here I am, then," she says softly. "Wanting you."

His expression doesn't change, but his face, his bearing seem somehow lighter.

"Oh, Lizzie," voice softer now, "have you forgiven me, then?"

"Didn't we settle this already? I told you that you didn't hurt me."

"Didn't I?" He reaches out and traces the faint discolouration staining her cheekbone, not quite touching her.

"I think that happened when we fell." She runs her thumb lightly over the fading welt on his neck with a small smile. "It's incredibly intense between us, fierce and powerful…and it's wonderful. Isn't it?" He can only nod, overwhelmed. "I wouldn't change it. And you know I don't mind a little…I mean, rough's okay, it's _good_ , but…I'm concerned about what was behind it, this time. It wasn't part of the game, Red."

He hesitates, wants to lie, to pretend — but he can't. He promised he'd never lie to her, and he can't start with this.

"You're right," he says. "I _was_ jealous, I was blind with it. Mad, lost. Aside from the danger of it — and Lizzie, there _is_ danger, whatever you think — it's that after everything that's happened between the two of you, the things he represents are such a temptation for you. But they aren't real." _I'm real,_ he wants to say, _this, between us, is real._

"I don't need you to tell me that — I haven't forgotten what he did. Although, if I decided he was what I wanted, it would be my decision. But Red, just as I don't owe _him_ anything because we used to be married; I don't owe _you_ anything because we're lovers. You don't own me, not like that — nobody does."

She hesitates, then continues, picking her way carefully. "I used to believe that two people could belong to each other, and maybe it's true. But it hasn't been for me, won't ever be when there's no one I can trust."

"You know that you can trust me, Lizzie." He sounds insulted, and she wants to laugh.

"In some ways," she agrees. "Not in others. Not enough. Not lying isn't the same as honesty, and you keep too many secrets. But I…I need you, Red." It's all she can bring herself to say. And she hopes that it's enough.

He looks at her somberly. "Will you break my heart, Lizzie?"

Her own heart gives a treacherous thump. "I don't _want_ to. I care for you, you know that. But we're so _many_ things to each other, Red, and I don't want to lose any of them. The friendship, the partnership, all of it — it's important to me. If we can't have this too, if it's too much, just tell me."

She forces the words to come, although they suddenly seem terrible. She tries not to think about never feeling his touch again, and takes a deep breath. "So, I guess it's up to you. Will you still be with me, as we have been? Do you…do you still want me?"

He almost laughs aloud, it's so ridiculous, and reaches out to tangle his fingers with hers. "With every breath, sweetheart." _Any way I can have you,_ he thinks, but has enough sense left to keep that to himself.

She's nearly shaking with the relief of it, with the security of the one person she has come to rely on still being there, a stable place. She kisses him impulsively, the sudden absence of the tension that has plagued her as good as an adrenaline rush.

The sweet, wild heat kindles between them in a flash, as if it's been waiting, just out of sight.

She hadn't realized how cold she has been until life is flooding her again, and she lets herself bask in it, just for a moment.

That moment stretches out and turns into minutes; she's pressed against him greedily, one hand curled around his neck and the other gripping his lapel. He has his arms around her, hands pressed flat and hard against her back, pulling her ever closer. It's as safe as it is enticing; the taste of him welcomes her like home.

"Don't leave like that again," she says, pulling slightly back to watch his face. "Don't."

* * *

His world has a centre again, just like that, with the taste of her on his lips, with the lush softness of her against him, in his arms. How could he have ever thought he could walk away? He no longer cares if he's right for her, if he belongs in her life; if she's lying through her teeth and she's only using him to fill the well of loneliness inside her. All that matters is the time they have together.

"Don't leave like that again," she says, her skin flushed, her eyes bright, voice husky. "Don't."

These words give him a stronger hope than anything else she's said — they show him a vulnerability similar to his own, that her need is more than she's willing to admit.

"I'm here, Lizzie," he answers, shifting to run his fingers over her cheek, through her silky hair. "Until you don't want me here; until this is done."

 _I'll never be done,_ he thinks ruefully.

She lets out a sigh of breath. "Promise me," she says insistently. "Promise me that we'll talk, that you won't just decide for both of us."

He hesitates, then nods. "All right, Lizzie." He kisses her again, because he can, because she's here, with him. He soaks in the loveliness of it, and his mind floods with enticing images, with a wealth of possibilities. Even as his hands start to move over her, though, he remembers where they are — and how odd it is that they're alone.

"Is Dembe waiting outside?"

She shakes her head, her smile carrying a little edge. "He's running an errand," she says. "He'll be a little while yet."

He rumbles approval low in his throat, and tightens his arms around her again. She comes willingly, her mouth soft and yielding. She tastes faintly of tea and lemon; he savours it, sinking in deep. He runs a hand over her sleek lines, under her sweater to rest against the silk of her skin, familiar and beautiful.

She nips at his lip and he growls again, lets his mouth roam down to her throat…but hesitates, remembering the way indigo bloomed on her pale face. She curves herself in an arch against him, reading him easily.

"Mark me," she says, breath teasing in his ear. "I like it."

Another small victory, that she wants a reminder of him left behind. He fastens his mouth on her, elated, sucking a stain of colour into the side of her neck then pulling free to feather a breath of air over the damp skin. She shivers, a small moan, nails scratching at the back of his head.

He shifts a bit so that her body is tucked into one arm, so that he has a hand free to cup the weight of her breast. They're kissing again, a merging that stokes the heat inside. He rolls the tight peak of her nipple between thumb and finger in a way he knows she likes.

She hums against him, a pleasure sound like a gift; but then she braces a hand against his chest and pushes gently so he lets go of her.

"Lizzie?" She's only inches away, but it's much too far.

Her eyes are hot now, blue like the heart of a flame, and he wants her with an urgency that burns with the same heat. She must see it in his face, because she smiles, slow and wicked, and slips away to kneel in front of him. Her hands slide firmly up his thighs and his breath stops in his chest.

* * *

He's staring at her, gaze intent, the need so clear on his face that her muscles clench in response. She focuses with only small difficulty, eager now for a taste of him. Belt and buttons managed, she unzips him carefully and slides the waistband of his boxers down so she can free him.

"Look at you," she murmurs in appreciation, wrapping her fingers around the thick length of his cock.

"Lizzie," he says again, but his voice is strained this time, and it pleases her.

"I want you to remember this conversation," she says quietly. "I want you to think of this moment every time you sit here, and remember how it felt."

She leans in and traces a delicate line with her tongue, from root to tip. He makes an incoherent noise, and she smiles inwardly as she slips her mouth over the head in a sucking kiss. She thinks she can hear him swallow another sound, then takes as much of him as she can.

"Christ," he says on a gasp, " _Lizzie."_

Instead of releasing him so she can speak an answer, she starts to move, mouth and hand working together. He tastes of that particular masculine musk, but also of himself, spicy and sharp. She explores with her tongue, circling under the head, laving the sensitive underside in long swipes. It's easy to judge what he likes best by the noises he makes, by the tension in his thighs against her.

His hands are on her head now, encouraging but gentle — she thinks that he is still treading very carefully. She doesn't care for it, particularly; she loves the unrestrained way he approaches sex, giving and taking with a passionate abandon that's both euphoric and contagious.

She wants it back.

She tightens her grip and lets her teeth draw along the soft skin ever so slightly as she draws her head back, her hand following so it gets slick from her mouth. He grunts, surprised, his fingers winding into her hair in reflex.

She hums around him in gratification; his hands fist tight. _That's it, that's it,_ and she moans thickly and then everything becomes a blur of touch and taste, push and pull. His hips flex under her, moving with her, thrusting deep so that she has to swallow against him. He swears inventively as his hands tighten further in reaction, and everything starts getting faster, harder. She sucks him in eagerly now, harder, working to keep up as he moves.

She lets her eyes flick up, and is caught by the piercing glow of his gaze as he watches her. She lets her knees push her up a little so the angle changes, and he throbs against her tongue. Words stumble from his mouth — _God, yes_ and _like that_ and _harder, Lizzie,_ and then just a hoarse moan.

Then the hot pulses of his release are filling her; she swallows it all, savouring in a way she hasn't before. As he goes limp around her, softening in her mouth, she lets herself sink back onto her folded legs. She tucks him away gently, licking her lips and then resting her head on his leg with a sigh.

It's only a minute before he's alert again, pulling her off the floorboards and over his lap, cradling her close for a kiss. He doesn't shy away from his own flavour on her, and it's a long moment before she drops her head to rest her cheek on his shoulder. She soaks in his warmth, feeling his rapid breaths gradually calm under her hand.

"Honestly, Elizabeth," he says, mock scolding. "How can I ever go anywhere in this car again?"

She grins. "Thinking of me, of course."

He tucks his face into the crook of her neck and breathes in. "Of course," he murmurs, loving her. "Come home with me."

He can feel her stiffen slightly, and his mind clicks over, working fast and nimble. "You asked me not to leave," he says quietly, a rumble she can feel in her skin. "But it was you that left me behind in Venice, Lizzie."

Her skin chills a little, then burrows a little, so that she doesn't have to look at him.

"You're the one who's always leaving," he says, then kisses her neck, soft and warm. "Running from even the possibility of feeling something." His hands make patterns on her back, easing her tension, even as his voice lures her in. "But you already do, and we both know it. Just let yourself be open, that's all I ask. _Be with me."_

She shivers, curling into him, wanting it, _wanting it._ She's so tired of being afraid.

"Don't be afraid," a whisper that makes her skin prickle, lips moving against her. "Let me in."

She lets herself look, really look at the tummult within. _You're already here,_ she thinks but can't say, _you're already here inside me._ Then she's kissing him, over and over, the sandy remains of her walls shifting away.

"I'll try," she says, because she will, because she needs him so. "Red, I'll try."


	15. XV: Foundation

She's spent the last year or so constantly redefining her definition of _surreal._ And somehow, here she is again, sitting in a homely armchair with a loudly purring cat in her lap, listening to a master criminal and his right-hand man making sandwiches and trading insults in the next room.

 _Let's go home,_ he'd said when Dembe arrived back at the car, and now here they were. The apartment in Bethesda, home of all Reddington's secrets — or so she'd once thought. Now, she's not so sure. Maybe there are secrets under the surface, but more importantly, it's a refuge. One place in the world that's truly his.

Not so long ago, she'd have been taking advantage of this time to poke around, to touch things, to try and find something tangible about him to hold on to. Now, with the first shaky steps toward _something else_ under her feet, she can't find it in herself to violate him that way.

So she sits, scratching the ecstatic tabby behind the ears, and lets the simple peace of it ease her fractured self.

And thinks, as they eat a companionable lunch together, Red and Dembe keeping her laughing with wicked reminiscences, that this is actually the most normal she's felt in almost two years. Here, in this cluttered, quiet apartment, with the two people who have become her family.

And she warms further, a feeling that she's terribly afraid is happiness. She lets it sit, cozy inside her, carefully not looking at it too closely — while they eat and talk and laugh together; while she and Dembe review the plans for their meeting with his foundation Chair the next day; while she tidies up in the kitchen, humming absently under her breath, as Dembe takes his leave.

The incongruous sound of trumpets summons her back to the main room, to see Red turning away from the stereo to greet her with a wide smile, one that lights his eyes and makes them gleam.

He extends a hand of invitation, the sun glinting golden on his forearm. "Dance with me, Lizzie."

"Red," she says, laughing a little and brushing at her jeans. "I'm not…"

"It's always a good time for a dance, sweetheart."

He steps forward and takes her hand, pulls her into a lazy spin. The cheerful sounds of big band music, oddly opposed to wistful lyrics about love and longing, lead them around the room in a quick stepping swirl that just makes her laugh more. He's a good dancer, of course, good enough that he makes her feel like she's good at it too.

He twirls her away, then back again, snug against him in the curl of a strong arm. The sunlight that filters through the gauzy curtain glitters hazily, and she's just dizzy enough from the turns of the dance that everything takes on a dreamlike quality, a breathless beauty. The happiness inside her roots a little bit, gently, tentative.

A memory that she will tuck away into her heart and keep, forever.

* * *

The music changes, a slower, bluesy something; a woman's voice, sweet and husky, winding through the room like smoke.

… _I'll show you where all my, Where my demons hide from you…_

Their steps slow to match the music, their bodies in line, matched. He holds her hand over his heart while her other wraps around his shoulder; his other arm circles her waist to keep her close. She relaxes into the warmth of him, into the familiar fit. The shift of his hips against hers, guiding her gently around the room, raises an easy tendril of heat, anticipation.

… _Unfold me and teach me how to be, Like someone else…_

There's a charming romance to it, to dance at home in the bright light of the afternoon. To be carried, for a moment's breath, in the arms of another. _(In the arms of someone who loves you.)_ She lets her head drop to his shoulder so she can tuck her face into his neck and breathe. Just breathe him in.

… _I was discovered by the love, I had been waiting for so long…_

She lets her lips graze his skin as she leans in, just enough to have his hands tighten and flex. He presses his cheek to the top of her head and the dance becomes a soft sway, scant movements to maximize touch. A shift of position, then another, and their mouths meet, light, perfect.

… _Oh, oh, You are lost and found…_

The sun is warm, but he is heat and light and _everything._ Their arms wrap more firmly around each other; their kiss deepens. Emotion and need and yearning all tangle together inside her, and she loses herself in him, knowing it is safe to do so, knowing he will find her again.

* * *

He feels like he's been living on a knife edge, teetering, keeping his grip by the barest of inches. But just two whispered words, _I'll try,_ she said, just a breath of air, and solid ground is his once more.

He rides on the happy glow of it, on the high of the pleasure she'd given him, on the simple joy of family, on the loveliness of a dance. Her laughter when he dipped her low, when he swung her around the room, was infinitely more beautiful than the music that played.

And now, now she is warm and soft and _right_ in his arms, her mouth on his all he could ask for. He tastes, gently, and she makes a little noise somewhere between contentment and longing, her hand hot on his neck.

She presses into him, her free hand slipping over his chest to tug at buttons, and he smiles against her mouth.

"Always in such a hurry, Lizzie," he murmurs. "What's the rush?"

She pulls away to look at him, the desire shining bright. "I want you," she says simply. "Why wait?"

He gives her a long, sly grin, and tips her over his arm again, admiring the arch of her neck. "Why wouldn't we?" he returns, letting his lips brush against the hollow of her throat as he speaks. "I think it's time for a little more delayed gratification."

She makes another wordless sound, and pulls herself back in close, her hands sliding around his back to fasten into the fabric of his vest.

"Don't think so much," he adds, subtly guiding her to the doorway of the room; down the hallway.

When the light changes, surprise flits over her face — he can tell she wasn't paying attention to their movements.

"One of my favourite things about this apartment is the way the afternoon sun comes into the bedroom," he says conversationally. "The way it filters in…it's perfect."

She looks at him, and he can see that he's knocked her a little further off kilter. He lets the heat he feels show, just a little, and just the look has her pupils dilating in response.

"I've been wanting to look at you in this light for a while now," he continues, voice deep with intent. "Stand still."

"What do you–"

"It's my turn. _Stand still."_

She doesn't say anything else, just watches him warily as he waits, just a moment, enjoying the picture. He traces a finger over her cheek and down the side of her neck, and thrills at the way she shivers in response. He takes the hem of her sweater in a firm grip and peels it over her head in a smooth, sure movement. When her arms are free, she reaches for him, and he shakes his head.

"Not this time," he says. "Patience, Lizzie."

Her eyes flash at him, hot and hungry, but she doesn't say anything — just lets her arms drop and waits. Pleased, he winks at her, then divests her of the rest of her clothes, careful not to touch her directly. She breathes quickly, anticipation clear in the lines of her body, the flush on her skin.

Entranced, delighted, he drinks in the sight of her. He could look at her for ages, eons; a work of art that would never fade. He loves the way the cream of her gives way to rose under his steady gaze; the way she seems to both firm and soften in her need.

"Lie down," he says quietly.

She bites her lip, looking like she'd rather do something else — but she does. The coverlet of his bed is a soft, rich blue, and all together, she is like a siren in the waves of the deep.

She watches him as he shrugs out of his vest and toes off his shoes, then raises a curious eyebrow when he stops there and sits beside her on the edge of the bed.

And just looks at her.

Stretched out on her back, long and lean and lovely. Everything he's ever wanted and thought he would never have. Looking back at him with searing blue eyes.

If she will not hear his words, he will give her his body — every touch an endearment, every stroke a lyric of longing, each press of lips and skin a line of the poetry of love.

"Red," she says, her voice low and husky with want, "touch me."

He obliges, running a hand ever so lightly down the midline of her torso, from collarbone to navel. She arches slightly in response, following his touch, seeking. Her breath is quiet but quick, and she reaches for him again.

He stops her hands neatly. "No," he murmurs. "Let me have you, sweetheart."

He leans in and kisses her, hissing as she catches his bottom lip with her teeth. She licks over the small hurt gently, and flexes her fingers inside his grip, pulling. He lifts her hands over her head and presses them into the pillow.

He smiles at her, full of warmth and love and happiness. "You're so beautiful, Lizzie," he says softly. "So beautiful in the sunlight, even better than I pictured it, like a pearl, glimmering."

She flushes again, and he has to taste it, to see if the rose has a different flavour to the cream. One taste isn't enough.

He's made his way only from the line of her jaw to the crook of her neck before he feels her hands on him again, tugging his shirt loose to slide over his skin, hot, wanting.

"If you can't keep your hands to yourself, I'll have to make you," he warns, a laugh in his voice.

"I don't _want_ to," she replies, scratching enticingly across his back. "I want to put my hands on you, feel your skin against mine."

"But it's my turn," he says, nipping at her earlobe. "I don't want to be interrupted."

He sits back, though she tries to hold him still, and undoes his tie, sliding it smoothly from his neck. With quick, deft movements, he pulls her hands free and back over her head, looping them in silk and fastening the ends to the iron of the headboard with a firm knot.

He can't quite decide what she thinks of it, as she says nothing and just watches, her eyes burning into him. He lets the back of his hand trail down the length of her arm, stopping just as his knuckles brush the swell of her breast. She makes a little sound, turning into his touch, her nipples peaking.

He avoids her neatly, tracing the line of her ribcage instead, and startling a laugh from her.

"Are you ticklish, sweet?" He finds the thought strangely entrancing, and follows his path again and again until she is twisting away, her hands pulling impatiently at her bonds, fighting back laughter. Then, _then_ he covers her breast with his mouth, suckling and hot, making her stop laughing on a choked gasp.

She tastes of citrus and honey; he could dine on nothing else happily for the rest of his life. He shifts onto the bed to cover her, trapping her lower half between his knees and holding her close. He is driven to explore every inch, lingering at the soft underside where the touch of his tongue makes her moan and shift restlessly.

He settles firmly over her, tucking his hands under her to better angle her into his mouth, and proceeds to thoroughly enjoy himself.

* * *

 _He's finally decided to kill me._

The thought staggers drunkenly through her mind as she burns under his sensual onslaught, caught by him, unable to move to relieve even a little of the tension that thrums within. Her body is a taut bow beneath his, and frustrating though it may be, she loves the feel of him, heavy and warm, hard and unyielding.

He is taking her apart ever so gently, covering every last inch of her with hands and mouth, teasing out all of her secrets.

And she doesn't really understand how he's doing it.

He was the one who'd said it, their first or second encounter — she has no use for soft and sweet, she likes it fierce and rough, fast and dangerous.

And yet, although his every touch is tender, although he is handling her with something that feels like reverence…she is overwhelmed. There's a relentlessness in him — the movements of his hands and the sucking pressure of his mouth, in the same places over and over — that makes every flutter of sensation build and build upon itself until she feels she may just shatter.

She aches with it, pleasure a seething mass inside with no release; she wants him with an ferocious intensity that is at least the equal, if not the greater, of any of their other encounters.

"Red," she manages, barely recognizing her own voice, "come inside me."

"Not yet," he says, almost crooning, the words a tease against her stomach. "I'm not anywhere near ready yet, Lizzie."

She isn't sure if that's a threat or a promise; isn't sure that she cares. She lets her head drop to the pillow, grips the iron rung between her bound hands with white-knuckled fingers, and gives herself over to sensation.

Her breath becomes increasingly erratic as she strains helplessly beneath him, desperate for something solid to grasp. She moans, almost painfully, as his mouth finds the crease between her hipbone and thigh, causing ripple after ripple of searing pleasure.

He hums against her in gratified response, then starts to speak, rough and quiet words that she can't quite make out but can only feel, branding her skin.

He lifts suddenly and shifts himself upward to lavish kisses at the base of her throat, and slides a broad thigh between hers to press into her centre. The relief of the abrupt pressure in just the right spot, the slight bristle of his wool trousers abrading her most sensitive skin, the rush of blood upward as he suckles fiercely at her neck — it all combines in an intensely powerful flood of feeling that sends her tumbling over the edge, crying out from the sheer glory of it.

She has barely time to catch her breath when his mouth is on her breast again, awareness shooting through her like stars. She bites her tongue against the urge to beg, instead hooking a leg around his to keep him pressed against her. She thinks she can feel his mouth curve, and then he is gone, slipped as easily out of her grasp as water, and the loss of heat, of touch, of _everything_ is nearly too much to bear.

"Red," she says raggedly, "what–"

Her words cut off abruptly as she feels his hand, warm and strong on her feet, then moving up her calves, tracing lines that he follows with his mouth. She arches her body greedily, trying to urge him onward, but his movements are inexorably slow, devastating in their implacable gentleness. All she do is absorb every shock of feeling and wait, unable to even shift her hips for relief as he presses her down.

By the time he reaches the apex, she is wound so tightly that the lightest brush of his lips against her has her spiraling again, breath sobbing out of her in ecstatic relief.

"Now," she says, and it sounds like begging even to her, and she no longer cares. "Now, Red, _please."_

"Once more," he replies, but his voice is as rough and ragged as hers. "Once more for me, LIzzie, love."

She is still pulsing in release as he slides two fingers inside her; as he teases tenaciously at her clit. The soft brush of his shorn head against her tender thigh; the slick suck of his mouth upon her; the crook of his fingers inside her — it all combines to having her coming again, orgasm on the heels of orgasm as a sound she cannot name comes desperately from her mouth.

She is blind with pleasure, the world gone black, her body arched and stiff, and she is lost, so lost in it, in him. Was she afraid of something as small as love? That seems small compared to this, to this agony of pleasure that tears through her like a hurricane, leaving her wrung out and limp.

Then, only then is he there, skin to skin at last, his cock rock hard against her hip as he tugs her hands free of their binding. His mouth is hot on her wrist, one then the other, easing the slight ache.

Then he finds a pressure point she never imagined, and her body spasms taut against him again, when she'd have thought it impossible, and finally, _finally,_ he is inside her in one swift thrust that makes her scream.

He braces himself over her and she can feel his hips flex as he moves, the slide of his cock against her oversensitized skin somehow still gentle. He is damp with sweat, with the effort, she thinks, of holding himself back.

But her hands are free, now, so she wraps her arms around him and pulls him into her. The soft rasp of his hair against her breasts is acutely pleasurable; the scar tissue on his back a familiar map to her searching fingers.

He's whispering again, and she tries to still so she can finally decipher what he's saying — but he's moving more urgently now and taking her along with him, so all she think about is the push and pull of their bodies.

He is unflagging, unceasing; he is rapidly becoming the sole focus of a tiny world. _Again,_ she thinks she hears him say, his breath soft against her ear. _Again, with me._ And though it seems ridiculous in her current state of pleasured exhaustion, she can feel the need rise.

And as she feels him swell inside her, as his thrusts become irregular and quick, as he clutches her to him and releases into her in long, hot spurts that she can _feel…_ she comes apart in a shattering flash that is so searingly powerful it brings tears to her eyes.

She floats, untethered, lost in a sea of sensual euphoria, her whole body trembling with intense aftershocks. The relief of his familiar warmth as he pulls her over to curl into his side; the anchor of his solid body a welcome sanctuary.

"Are you all right?"

There's a small comfort in the way his voice betrays him to be as shaken as she.

"I…I don't think that's the right term," she answers, voice hoarse and dim with exhaustion. "But yes, I think I'll…manage."

He laughs at that, a rumble that she feels right through to her toes. "Don't mistake me," he says, dry and affectionate, "I will _always_ be more than happy to be with you, whenever, wherever, however you choose. But I hope we can agree that more…traditional methods have their good points."

She laughs too, sleepily, rubbing her cheek against his chest a little. "I bow to the expert," she teases, then yawns hugely. "Maybe I'll just…leave it to you…from now…"

She can't finish her sentence, all her faculties slipping away. She tucks herself more firmly into his side and sighs, her eyes closing.

If this is love, she thinks hazily, on the cusp of sleep, she will stop running. If this is love, as darkness beckons, as she presses her lips to his chest, she will embrace it.

* * *

He feels a sweet swell of utter contentment as he lies still, the most precious person in his world snuggled against him with her breath evening into sleep. He lets his hand trail up and down her back, unwilling to stop touching her, to lose a moment of this time, love in its simplest form.

He lets his eyes drift closed, and then the words start to come again, rasped huskily into her hair — perhaps they will enter her while she sleeps and become a part of her. Words to try and explain how he sees her, how beautiful she is inside and out, how she makes him believe in better things. How she has changed the way he sees the world, and even how he sees himself.

How very much he loves her.

He holds her close, love on his lips and in his heart, happiness a steady heartbeat within.

* * *

 **A/N:** I'm afraid I have veered a little too close to sentimentality here, but I've been watching Pride & Prejudice, so what can one do? Hopefully it works for them.

Their first dance is to the Paul Stone version of Don't You Forget About Me that they canonically dance to in 501 Smokey Putnam. Lyrics from their second are from Lost and Found by Liane La Havas.


	16. XVI: Shatter

**A/N:** So…yeah. If anyone still wants to read this, I'll count myself pretty lucky. It seems sort of disingenuous to reply to reviews after so long, but please believe I read them all, and the support kept me from throwing the whole rag in completely. I hope this chapter makes up for the wait at least a little bit, and though I am clearly in no position to make promises, I intend to finish this sooner rather than later. Thanks again, most sincerely.

* * *

Awareness comes in soft layers — the sensation of warmth around her; a hazy golden light in the air; the rhythmic purr of the cat somewhere behind her. Happiness lies settled within, and she takes a moment to luxuriate in it. It has been so fleeting over the last months ( _years?_ ) that it seems almost a novelty.

Then the sound of footsteps makes her look up, and there's Red, smiling at her with a steamy mug in his hand, his expression soft.

"Lizzie," he says, a comfortable rumble, and he sits on the edge of the bed. "There you are."

It takes her a moment to think that this is an odd phrasing. Languorous and lazy, she stretches with a yawn, enjoying the slide of sheets against her skin.

"I haven't moved," she says, and leans up on an elbow, taking the mug for a luxurious swallow of coffee.

"No," he replies, "you haven't — barely at all, all night."

She shakes alert at that. "What? Wait — is it morning?"

"I tried to wake you for supper, but you wouldn't have it," he says. "I thought I should let you sleep."

"It feels like no time! I…didn't dream, not at all. How can it have been so long?"

His smile deepens, and he smoothes the hair back from her face with a gentle hand. "Maybe you felt safe," he suggests. "Maybe you thought that you _could."_

She leans into his hand, just a little, just for a moment. Then her brain clicks over, and she jolts, coffee sloshing dangerously.

"What time is it?" she cries. "I'm going to be late, I–"

"Relax, Lizzie," he interrupts, voice soothing. He takes the mug back and puts on the bedside table. "You've got plenty of time. Dembe will be picking you up in about an hour."

"That's not plenty of time! To get to my apartment and back here, showered and dressed?"

She's struggling out of bed as she speaks, and Red stands and shifts to give her room; offers a hand so she can pull herself upright; tries not to look too hard or long at her, nude and gleaming in the morning dim.

"I said _relax,"_ he repeats patiently, taking her by the shoulders before she can go flying off. "There's no need to go anywhere — you can just as easily shower here, and…" He hesitates, expression shuttering carefully. "I've got clothes for you."

Relief comes first, then the question. "You've got clothes?" she asks, narrowing her eyes. "Mine? How? Or were you just…hedging your bets?"

He shrugs, looking as uncomfortable as she's ever seen him. "I ended up with some things after our time traveling together," he says. "And, occasionally, I see something that should belong to you."

She thinks about that for a minute, and then smiles reluctantly. "I'm sure I should have a lot of opinions about that," she says. "But since it turns out to be extremely convenient, I'll just thank you for thinking of me, and ask you to point me at the washroom."

* * *

He finds himself humming as he putters in the kitchen, one ear out for Lizzie, paying attention to nothing in particular. He thinks he should laugh at himself for falling into the patterns of homemaking so easily, but it feels too good to laugh at, the comfortable normalcy of it all a sheer delight.

What lure have the sly finaglings and occasional adrenaline rush of the criminal life to offer in comparison to these simple joys?

He is sure many would call him foolish, even ridiculous, for these thoughts — but he knows better. He conjures the image of her, curled in his bed, and lets it warm him. He knows he should resist the feeling, but it's too alluring to let go of.

It doesn't hurt anyone but him.

The soft thud of her boots in the hallway, and then her voice, warm with laughter.

"I think this is the one thing I may never get used to," she says. "You, in the kitchen."

He turns, already smiling, ( _she plans to get used to him_ ), and his breath catches in his throat. Is this how it will be forever? Every fresh glimpse of her like the first; every time he sees her a punch to the gut. She's dressed simply, but with sleek lines that speak of confidence, slim black pants a sharp contrast to the muted blue sweater that matches her bright eyes and brings colour to her face. Her hair lies loose on her shoulders in damp waves, silky and soft.

Her expression shimmers with nerves. "Do I look okay?" she asks. "I want to be appropriate, but I didn't want to look too formal or intimidating, in case I get the chance to meet any of the kids, I…"

"You're beautiful," he says quietly. "Beautiful."

She's struck for a moment, by the stark simplicity of his words — she's been told times enough that she _looks_ pretty, good, beautiful — but only Red says it this way, that it is _she._ Her heart skips and the wide smile she can feel forming embarrasses her.

She tucks her hair behind her ear absently and steps into the room, flips through the morning paper that lies in a jumble on the table. "I'm glad you think so," she says, not looking at him.

"I always have," he answers. A brief warmth at her elbow, and a tall glass appears before her, full of a thick rosy liquid that froths busily. She picks it up and sniffs cautiously; hears him chuckle at her skepticism.

"A smoothie?" she asks, knocked off-kilter again, just like that.

"All the nutrients you need, in a hurry," he replies cheerfully. "Raspberry-banana — I think you'll like it."

She takes a small sip; it's quite good _(of course it is),_ so she leans against the table to drink her breakfast. He's already sloping casually against the counter, watching her, and she shivers, just a little, in awareness.

Catching him watching her, the intent stroke of another's eyes on her, reminds her of something though, something she has to ask him.

"Red," she says slowly. "What did you and Dembe…do, with Jacob Phelps? Is he…" She trails off awkwardly, not wanting to damage this new easiness between them.

His eyes narrow, and she sighs inwardly. "Concerned, Lizzie?" he asks, voice light but unable to erase the taint of bitterness. "We didn't do anything permanent, if that's what you're worried about."

Her heart gives a treacherous, indefinable thump; two. She manages to roll her eyes at him, her expression carefully cool. "I don't _care,_ " she says, "I only wondered. It's just that, over the last week when I've been out and about, I've had that feeling. Being watched, like someone's there, just behind me. But when I look, there isn't. He was watching me before, and I thought…"

Red's expression has closed as she speaks. "He was…strongly encouraged to take himself elsewhere," he says evenly. "And not come back. His boat was gone, the last time I checked."

She shrugs, relief and worry and a sort of pleased discomfort at his concern all tangling up inside her. "I must be imagining it," she answers lightly. "After effects, or something."

"Maybe," Red says, his voice soft and dangerous. "Maybe not. I'll look into it."

Unsettled, she puts her glass down half-finished. She starts to protest, wanting it gone, wanting to just forget it all, but is interrupted by Dembe's quiet step in the hall.

So she puts it aside, for now, and refocuses on making a new start.

* * *

The air is grey and cool today, pleasantly soft against his face as he walks down the pier, lost in thought. The boat slip had been as empty as he'd expected it to be; but this doesn't really mean anything. There are any number of ways a chameleon like Jacob Phelps could leave a city and slink back in undetected. He could be anywhere, anyone, just waiting for a chance.

And how can even he find one lone man, hiding among hundreds of thousands of others? A glint of light flashes in his peripheral vision; a security camera. They're everywhere in the city. He smiles grimly, sliding his phone out of his pocket. Time for a call to his favourite hacker…

He'll just have to convince her to stay with him, until the man is found, until he can be sure it's safe. Until the enemy is defeated, once and for all.

* * *

She can't shake her smile as she walks back to the car with Dembe. The foundation is going to be a good place for her, she knows it for sure now. The space they occupy is light and airy, comfortable and friendly; the people warm and open, creating an atmosphere of safety, of family — basically the opposite of everything she's done before.

"Shall I take you back to Raymond's?" Dembe asks as he starts up the car. "He asked me to extend his invitation to dinner — a celebration, he said."

She laughs, happy right through to her bones. "Okay," she agrees. "I could use a celebration."

An answering smile flashes beside her and she settles cozily into her seat.

"It is nice to see you this way," Dembe comments. "Finding your real self."

A small sun is rising inside her. "Thank you," she says softly. "I think so, too."

* * *

She glances back again at the dress draped over the bed, still doubtful. With rare exceptions, she tends to stay away from bright colours — and while the deep plum of the silky length on the bed isn't bright, exactly, it seems to shimmer with a smoky light that will surely draw attention.

She rolls her eyes at herself, impatient. He's chosen it for her; he has impeccable taste; whatever else you could say about it, the dress is gorgeous. The entire outfit, from ridiculous tiny thong to spiky glittering shoes and a twisted silver chain, had been left out on the bed when she'd come out of the shower.

She's never worn garters before either, but thinks she's done a fair job of it. The stockings are so light she can barely feel them against her leg — she wonders for a moment how much they cost, then shrugs at herself in the mirror. She's carefully dabbing pale colour onto her lips when there's a rap at the door.

"I'll just be a few more minutes," she calls out.

He ignores her, _of course he does,_ slipping into the room wearing a sleek inky suit and a smile.

"Aren't you lovely, Lizzie." He's warm and solid behind her; his eyes gleaming and salacious when she meets them in the mirror.

"I'm not dressed," she returns, a little sharply, a little embarrassed.

His smile becomes a wicked grin, and his hand comes up to stroke the back of her neck. Her skin prickles in response; she touches the coil of the necklace around her neck, her palm recentering her.

"Lovely," he repeats, and bends to press a kiss at the top of her shoulder. Gooseflesh ripples outward as he breathes.

"Shall we play tonight?" he continues, voice dark, deep, low.

Heat floods her in a sweet and heady rush. She can't imagine what he has in mind, but she's certain she'll enjoy it.

"Oh yes," she replies, just above a whisper. "What's the game, Red?"

"Stand up," he says.

He turns her to face him as she rises, and then he's kissing her, full, consuming. She melts against him, feels almost conditioned to do so; the heat of his mouth, the intensity of his touch, evaporating reason and leaving her needing more, needing everything.

His hands inscribe patterns in her skin, the fabric of his suit brushing against her, tantalizing. She clutches at his jacket for balance, intoxicated. He's raising need inside her that whips like a flame, and she's lost in him. So lost, she starts in surprise when his fingers slip under the filmy fabric of her thong to slide along her slick skin.

She shifts her hips in response, sighing pleasure into his mouth. "Are we really going out?" she murmurs, longing.

He rumbles a laugh, letting his lips travel the curve of her neck even as a smooth thumb ( _is it?_ ) presses lightly into her. "We certainly are — everyone needs to eat, after all. And besides," he continues, "it will be fun." He's pushing gently inward, further, further, until her back arches and she moans on a hum of breath.

Then his hand is gone, resettling her underthings, smoothing over her skin; kisses become light and soothing on her heated flesh. _Or…is it? There's something…_

"Red, what…"

He lets her go with one final firm kiss on the lips. "Just a little something to liven up the evening. Don't pay it any mind, for now."

She's a bit shaky on her feet, desire a tangled knot keeping her off balance. _Don't pay it any mind?!_ She glares at him a little; he's smiling in that cocksure way of his, and she can't decide if she'd rather punch or devour him. He runs a finger lightly over her mouth.

"You'll have to redo your lips, Lizzie, I do apologize."

She rolls her eyes and re-seats herself in front of the mirror. "I'm sure you do," she says sardonically, smoothing her updo with shaky fingers. He laughs again, full, rich, then saunters away — "I'll be waiting for you, sweetheart."

* * *

Red is in fine form all evening — he does such a good job of distracting her from everyone and everything that she doesn't even catch the name of the restaurant they're in, noticing only the polished hush of elegance. He plies her with sparkling wine the colour of straw; with small bits of richly flavoured food that dissolve silky in her mouth.

He listens to her talk about her day — _really listens_ — making thoughtful comments, and asking questions about the people she describes. He tells her the story of Ressler catching up with the last Blacklister, at last, making her laugh in spite of herself. (Everything turned out fine eventually, after all.)

By the time the main course arrives, she's slightly tipsy and so warm and content with the loveliness of it all that when the low hum starts inside her it just makes her blink in confusion. Then she remembers, even as a slow, dreamy pressure starts to build, and she flushes hotly in something between pleasure and embarrassment.

She is sure she should say something, protest, _anything,_ but she simply cannot.

He grins in that sly cat way of his, reaching across the table to cover her hand with his. He turns them so her palm is facing upward, then starts a light, deliberate stroking down the line of her wrist, right to the end of her fingers. The repetitive motion sparks a sensation that seems directly connected to the other, and her breath quickens a little as her nerves jump and quiver.

"Aren't you hungry?" he asks, low and smooth. "It'll get cold."

"Are you serious? I honestly don't think I can." She's amazed she can even speak.

His eyes seem to glow in the dim light, intense, amused, sensual. "Go on," he says. "Or have I won so easily?"

She manages to laugh, gathering herself to pick up her fork with her free hand. "I thought the idea was for both of us to win."

He nearly howls in return, letting go of her hand to smother the sound with his serviette. "Oh sweetheart," he says, "That's certainly my favourite way to play."

She tries her dinner; finds it succulent, flavourful, delightful. She couldn't name it if she tried. She can't get accustomed to the movement within — it's so outrageously bold, sexy, tantalizing. She thinks she's managing to cover relatively well, especially with him watching her intently, and then. Then, the hum ratchets up a notch or two, and she drops her fork with a clatter.

"Everything all right, sweetheart?" His tone is all casual concern, but his eyes spark with humour.

"Oh, fine, thanks," she says, striving to keep her voice even and her face cool. But she can't, she can't, and she gives up entirely, dropping her gaze and gripping the edge of the table in some desperation.

"Can you _hear_ it?" she hisses, just the thought of it horrifying enough to have her flushing bright again.

He pats her hand reassuringly; reaches across to press his palm lightly against her cheek. "No, of course not," he says, a low rumble. "We're the only ones who know what's happening. I'm the only one who has even an inkling of the heat inside you, how soft and wet and needy you must be."

It's harder to breathe, and she focuses on it, drawing in the cool restaurant air, even as his words drive her higher, faster, further.

"I'm the only one," he continues, "who knows that however delectable the food here might be, it _pales_ in comparison to you. That nothing they can offer can match the flavour of you on my tongue." His arm moves slightly; she thinks he's got a hand in his pocket, and then all thought disintegrates as the hum within jumps and strengthens.

It takes everything she has to maintain any composure at all, her body striving for release, her mind under the spell of his voice. He tells her, quietly and simply, that she is unbearably lovely in her pleasure; that he has dozens of memories, of the arch of her neck and the scent of her passion and the press of her fingers; that he is hard and aching now, consumed by her as she shimmers on the edge of ecstasy.

She comes in a rush, momentarily blind to everything but the tide of sensation. It feels exactly like being underwater — the same rushing in the ears, the loss of control, the weightless lift. She floats in it for a long, luxurious moment, wondering dazedly if she's still sitting at a table or if she has slid away to lie limp and boneless on the floor.

He watches her eyes blur into smoke and her lips part on a gasp; her body sways slightly with her pleasure. He wants her with a keen ferocity; he stays in his chair only with a determined effort. He uses the remote in his pocket to quiet the device he'd placed inside her, then waits and watches as she seeps back into herself.

As she settles with a shudder, the flush dies away and her skin pales; her hand loose now on the table edge. She looks almost lost, and he takes her hand to anchor her. He fights back the words that clamour in his throat, finds others to say in their place.

"Did you want to finish your dinner, then?" he asks. "Or perhaps, dessert?"

She shakes her head at him mutely — language has vanished and she still trembles, overwhelmed. Her world has shifted on its axis; her foundations transformed into something new, something bright and beautiful. She longs to tell him about it, but cannot find the right words. He's smiling as he waves at the waiter, hands over a fat wad of bills with a few quiet words. Smiling, as he leads her to the powder room at the back of the restaurant and hands her a silky white handkerchief with a sly wink. Smiling, as she comes back out, shaky on her legs all over again from the second wave of pleasure that swept her at the loss of the weight and pressure of his tricky little toy; the slide of the silicon against her sensitive skin.

He curves an arm around her solicitously as they head for the door; she's terribly glad for the support it provides. They stand on the sidewalk for a quiet moment and she leans against him, hot cheek against his shoulder, while he looks into the night sky, as if searching for something he can't find.

"Shall we drop you at your apartment, Lizzie?" He asks, eyes still on the stars, casual though he has no real intention of leaving her alone.

It only takes a moment for her to decide, to know that she is done running and that what she wants is right here, right here beside her, if she can be brave enough.

"No," she says softly, lightly enough that he finally turns to look at her. "Take me home, Red. Take me home, and make love to me."

His face floods with love ( _finally_ , she can admit it to herself), and he turns to close his other arm around her tightly.

" _Elizabeth_." Her name, that's all, simple and quiet. It's...everything. The space between them shimmers.

Before she can say anything, before their lips meet, before they can truly meet on equal ground, a terrible _click-thunk_ shatters the night into pieces around them.

She knows that sound, recognizes it on an instinctual level. Her body responds easily, years of training now paying dividends; her hand sliding under Red's jacket for his ever-present handgun even as she pivots to face the street.

Even as her heart clenches tightly in a desperate effort to stay whole in the face of her own ill fate.


	17. XVII: Break

" _Take me home, Red,"_ she'd said, her face open and brimming with emotion. " _Take me home, and make love to me."_

" _Elizabeth,"_ he'd answered, bereft of better words, wrapping his arms tight around her in their place.

He's so overwhelmed that it takes a long moment — too long, much too long — to recognize the sound that shatters the air and to remember what it means. Long enough that she's already whipping out of his arms, his own gun solid in her hands.

She faces the short-barreled shotgun with every appearance of cool preparedness, meeting the furious eyes of her opponent with a raised eyebrow and a leveled weapon.

" _Whore."_

A vicious slash through the still night air. "I knew it," Jacob Phelps continues, seething with palpable rage, shouting from across the street like a madman. "I _knew_ you were fucking him. How long? Since you met him? _This whole time?"_

Red opens his mouth to bite back, more than capable on this particular field of battle. She silences him with a quiet glance.

"I don't think that's any of your business," she says, her tone calm and even. Not letting her own anger show, not giving an inch. "It's nothing to you."

"Not my business?" Incensed now, he steps forward, crossing, no handy traffic to stop him. He's too close, too close, his shotgun a real danger with less than 40 yards between them. Wary, she cocks the revolver in her hands and he stops moving again.

"Everything about you is my business, babe. You're _my wife."_

She'd thought she'd worked through the pain of it; she was wrong. "No," she says, letting her weary sorrow through, hoping it will resonate. "I'm not. I never was. It was all just make-believe, a sham; _when_ will you admit it?"

"Wrong again." A hiss now, bitter, angry. "It was _our life."_

"Jacob," she says, tired, so tired. But the look shivers over his face makes her pause, think fast. "Tom," she tries, and the tension eases a fraction. "Be reasonable. I can't talk to you while you're pointing a gun at me."

He shakes his head, shadows keeping her from seeing his full expression. "It's too late for talking, babe."

She knows, suddenly, what he intends; terror grips her heart and her fingers tighten on the trigger.

"Don't," she says, barely audible. "Please, Tom, _please,_ don't do this."

But he was right; it's too late.

Red is turning toward her, his face screaming with fear, but she knows he's wrong, he's wrong this time, and she's firing even as the shotgun blast rings through the night. Even as the hot spray hits her cheek, her neck, her arm.

Jacob Phelps crumples in the street, a neat cluster of holes in his chest, two stark in his forehead. She barely notices, already reaching for Red, empty gun tumbling to the ground, her mind gone blank and still in terrified shock.

"Lizzie," he says, his voice strange and distant as their eyes meet, her hands clutching at him. "I think...I think I might be…"

Then his eyes roll back in his head and he folds quietly to the sidewalk at her feet. She can't breathe, can't think over the roaring in her ears, her vision gone black. She drops to her knees beside him, not noticing the pain of impact, not hearing herself whimpering like a frightened animal.

Someone starts screaming, and the harsh sound cuts through the static in her brain, snaps her back to life. Chivvied into action, she presses her hand to what seems to be the worst wound, in his neck, even as she rifles for his burner phone.

Someone is kneeling across from her, talking urgently. She thrust the phone out without really looking at him.

"I'm FBI," she lies easily, without thought. "Take this, dial star, seven, seven, and give the person that answers this address."

"Someone's already called 911…"

"I don't care," she snaps, free hand in her purse now, rummaging desperately for her own phone. "Please, just do as I ask. I'm FBI, and this man is under my protection."

The stranger across from her nods, and she hears him give the restaurant address as she waits for an answer.

"Keen?"

A wave of relief at the familiar voice, so strong she almost collapses.

"Ressler," she says, "Reddington's down, I need you at the scene."

"Jesus," he says back, and she can tell he's already moving. "Where are you?"

She repeats what the man across from her had just said; she wouldn't have known otherwise.

"Ten minutes," Ressler says brusquely. "Stay in control."

She presses another few buttons, says only, "Dembe, I need you, _now,_ hurry." She drops the phone and searches with her free hand, finds another well of blood in the muscle of his upper arm, another in a ragged furrow by his collarbone. With no good options, she digs her knee into his arm and presses into his collarbone with her free hand.

His jacket is shredded and burnt; his most of his right side seems to be bleeding, torn like raw meat.

He groans in response, pained and weak, much weaker than she'd like.

"Take it e-easy, N-nurse Rat-tch…" he tapers off without finishing, his head dropping to face away from her.

"Red," she says, pressing a little harder, instead. "Reddington!" Snapping now, fear driving her on. "Where else are you hit?"

His eyelids flutter briefly. "Side," he says, hoarse and croaky. "I think...two in the side."

With few options, she nudges his arm up and presses her other leg against him as hard as she can manage.

"Is anyone else injured?" She finally remembers to ask the man still hovering across Red's body, clutching the burner phone like a lifeline.

"I-I don't think so," he replies, sounding shaky and sick. "Just the two of you. You-you're bleeding, miss."

He reaches over and touches her arm gingerly. She stares at him for a second, then looks down where his fingers are resting. A ragged tear near the elbow, but the bleeding is sluggish; she shrugs it off.

"Just a flesh wound," she says. "Not important."

The man looks like he might argue, but she's focusing on Red again.

"Eyes open, now," she demands. "Look at me."

He manages a small slit, grey shining out dully. "So bossy," he murmurs. "Always have to have it your own way."

She wants to laugh, cry, scream. "That's right," she says, instead. "Stay awake until Kate gets here. Any minute now."

Then her peripheral vision is filled with a familiar solid presence, and she almost breaks, then.

"Dembe." Her voice is weak, now, too, and his warm hand covers hers, adding his strength.

"Stay strong, Elizabeth," he says calmly. "He needs you now."

She nods mechanically, pressing down, all her weight on the body beneath her. She tries not to think about how cold he seems, how quiet; tries not to look at the pallor of his face, the weary lines etched in his skin.

A sharp pain in her arm — Dembe has taken the tie from around Red's neck and knotted it tight around her wound. She shrugs it off and looks back at Red; his eyes are closed again, his breathing slow.

"I told you to stay awake, Reddington," she snaps, angry now, because anger is strong, anger will keep her going. "Don't you ever listen?"

"Bossy," he says again, the smile hovering faintly behind his words. "I'm trying. But I'm...so tired, Lizzie."

"No, you aren't," she argues, fear thick in her throat, choking and horrible. "Don't be ridiculous. A little thing like this?"

He does laugh, then, but it's a sad parody. "I'll be up and about in a minute," he agrees, and one shaky hand touches hers on his chest.

Then, thank god, _thank god,_ she can hear Mr Kaplan directing in a crisp voice, other hands coming down to help her.

It's difficult to move, everything cramped and stiff; she falls hard to the ground, knocking the air out of herself in a rush. Red is being lifted carefully, but Dembe is there, arms around her, guiding her with a strong arm.

"I need to stay with him," she says, certain he must not be let out of her sight.

"I know." Dembe's voice in her ear is as strong as ever, reassuring as he lifts her again, helping her into the back of the ambulance. He climbs in after her, and they sit on either side of Red as the doors slam shut.

* * *

It had all happened so fast, he thinks drowsily. He'd been sure Phelps was there for Lizzie, the old "if-I-can't-have-you" bit. But she'd known. She'd known just how twisted and determined Phelps had been and she hadn't hesitated. _For me,_ Red thinks, amazed, _for me, she didn't hesitate._

"Lizzie," he manages, needing to, just to hear her say something back. Anything.

"I'm here," she says, her voice high and tight. Her hand on his cheek, warm, so warm. "I'm here, Red."

"Dembe," he tries, needing answers, too. "Do you have…" He has to stop to cough; it hurts, abominably.

"I have the weapon," Dembe confirms, his soft voice steady as always. "12-gauge shotgun loaded with triple-aught buckshot, Raymond, six pellets. Five hit you, the other hit Elizabeth. He only got one shot off."

"Lizzie…" Panicked, he gropes for her, he can't see properly.

"You have to stop moving, sir." An unfamiliar voice — one of Kate's hand-picked paramedics, he supposes. Even as the words are said, she's rubbing his cheek in reassurance, her other hand catching his and squeezing, her bloody fingers slippery. Then she's there, close enough that he can feel her breath against his skin.

"I'm fine," she says firmly. "Grazed, at worst." Dembe shifts in his seat; she turns away to glare at him. "You have to lie still and let them stop the bleeding."

 _I know you, you're worrying all the time  
_ _I know it's because you want me to be all right_

"They…look at you," he insists, trying to squeeze her hand back. He thinks he's failed when he sees her eyes shimmer.

"You first," she says. "No arguing."

He sighs, long and windy, and lets his eyes slip shut, exhausted. The prick of the IV needle, the caress of cool air as his clothing is cut away. Hands on his skin, wiping away blood, taping down gauze.

It's all so distressingly familiar. He's sick of it, he thinks, sick of the violence, the pain. Sick of seeing his own blood pooling outside of his body. She's happy now, and safe — safer, with him gone, let's be honest here. A new career, Dembe at her side, the dark hatred and horror of his world banished forever from her life.

All he has to do is let go.

And he's so tired.

He just has to say it, just once. Just once, so she knows he's doing what's best.

To wrap up his last loose end, his beloved.

"E-Eliz…" He can't manage it, it's too complicated. _Her eyes are so blue,_ he thinks lovingly, _like the ocean. I'll just drown in them and float away._ "Lizzie."

She's gripping him hard by the hands, blood sticky now between their palms. "I'm here."

"Lizzie, I do…" It's getting so difficult; he can't see her face anymore, just that deep, rich blue. "I do love…"

There's nothing more; he has no strength left.

He hopes it's enough.

* * *

His face is creased with the effort of speaking, and she wants to hush him, to cradle him against her until the pain is gone and it's just the two of them, alone together again, whole and safe.

She can't let go of his hands.

 _I wish you didn't take on everybody's pain  
_ ' _Cause I know you, every night you're saying prayers_

"I'm here," she says, trying to get closer without getting in the way, her throat aching and swollen with tears unshed.

" _Lizzie, I do…I do love…"_

His head drops to the side away from her then, and alarms start beeping, machines kicking up a noisy fuss, and she wants to throw up.

"Red?" Where has he gone, where?

Dembe is prying her hands loose and pulling her back; she fights him wildly, kicking, desperate. Red needs her, needs her there, needs to know…

 _Don't know what I'd do if I lost you  
_ _Don't know what I'd do if I lost you_

They let her settle at the head of the gurney, her hands moving anxiously over his face, again and again.

" _Red!"_ Nothing, nothing, just the insistent beep of the machine and the snapped words of the paramedics.

 _He's tachy…losing rhythm…how much longer?_

Dembe's strong hand on her shoulder, anchoring her, keeping her in one piece.

"Red, please." She wants desperately to howl, weep, shriek him awake.

 _So don't go, don't go on me now  
_ _Don't go, don't grow old on me now_

All she can do is beg.

"Don't," she says, a whisper of sound. "Don't go. Raymond please, don't go."

She presses her forehead to his as if she can share her small strength with him; force him to live through her will alone.

The noise fluctuates, then steadies horrifyingly into a long steady drone.

 _V-fib…charge…clear!_

Dembe yanks her back; Red's body jerks with the burst of electricity.

"Stay with me," she says, her mouth hovering by his ear. "Don't do this, don't give up."

 _Again!_

Her fists are clenched so tightly that her own blood seeps out to mingle with his. Her mouth stings with the tastes of bile and blood. She won't let him do this.

 _Oh god, what the hell would I do  
_ _If you take [him], I swear I'm coming too_

"Come on, Raymond. Please, don't go."

A hesitation. Silence, an agony.

Then.

A beep. Another.

A breath.

 _Got him!_ Triumphant, relieved. _Are we almost there?_ Practiced movements; reassuring.

 _Red._

 _Raymond._

 _Home._

 _Love._

She grips his face as firmly as she dares between her aching hands, puts her head back against his. Feels his pulse, faint but present, not quite even with her own.

 _Hold me like a child  
_ _Run your fingers through my hair_

She'll hold onto him forever, if that's what it takes. She closes her eyes, hoping, hoping.

"Bossy…" A ghost of a rumble, and she almost passes out from the relief of it.

"That's right," she says, and kisses him, forehead, cheek, the corner of his mouth, soft. "And I won't have it, do you hear me? You aren't leaving me alone."

Something that might have passed for a laugh, in other circumstances.

"I…promise…"

Then he falls quiet again, slack under her fingers, but he's still breathing, and it's all that matters. They've stopped moving, and there's shouting now, and pounding feet; Dembe is holding on to her, urging her up so they can hoist the gurney down.

She follows automatically, kicking off her shoes so she can jump down from the ambulance without breaking an ankle. A sterile room, an operating table. She has no idea where they are; doesn't care.

Dembe restrains her gently. "We have to stay back now, and let them work," he says.

She wrenches away fiercely. "I'll put on a gown and a mask, whatever," she says. "But I'm not leaving him."

Gloved, gowned, masked, she stands by his head with her hands on him, stroking gently as they remove pellets from his side, his arm, his chest. As they have a hushed discussion about the pellet in his neck, which has nicked his carotid artery and is lodged dangerously close. As they painstakingly widen the hole carved by buckshot and retrieve the lead ball. As they stitch him together, piece by piece, neat and tidy.

Dembe finds a stool for her at some point; she sinks onto it with some relief, and waits.

Wills.

Loves.

"Your turn, Elizabeth."

She shakes out of herself, turns her head. "I'm not moving," she says calmly. "They can do what they want while I sit right here."

"Elizabeth," he starts, but she just turns away.

"I'm not moving," she repeats, and strokes Red's cheek again, possessively.

And she doesn't. Barely twitches as Mr Kaplan takes over; strips the protective gear off her; jabs her, none too gently, with a local anesthetic. Barely notices as Kate digs the pellet impatiently out of her arm, strange and numb after being tourniqueted for so long.

"You'll be lucky if you don't have nerve damage," the smaller woman mutters as she stitches up the ragged slash. "Stubborn as mules, the two of you. You're covered in blood, dearie, you need a good wash, or this will get infected."

She must look monstrous, she thinks idly, a little dizzy now. "I'm not moving," she says again.

An exasperated huff of breath from the other woman, then she's carefully bathing Liz' arm in iodine solution, covering the wound with sterile dressing, wrapping the whole thing in what seems like an acre of gauze.

"That'll do for now," she says with a sigh, and turns away. "He's stable," Kate says to Dembe. "We'll move him — them — to the safe house."

And they're off again, a van this time — on the outside at least, to garner less attention, she supposes. A quiet house on a quiet street, pretty and neat. _Garrett Park,_ Dembe says to her, but she doesn't really care.

Red is carried carefully to the second floor and settled into a wide, comfortable bed, tubes and bags and machines all arranged tidily. She stands beside him, clutching his hand again, waiting. For something, anything more than the quiet beep of the monitor, the slight rise and fall of his chest.

It's not until Dembe puts a warm hand on her shoulder that she realizes how cold she is.

"You need to get cleaned up," he says gently. "You'll make yourself ill. And then what will he do?"

She looks up, considering. "You'll stay with him?"

"Of course I will," he assures her. "Look, there's an ensuite right there — have a shower and come right back."

She nods, a wave of exhaustion hitting her just at the thought of it, dry blood cracking on her skin. Dembe helps her cover her bandages with plastic and then all but shoves her into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her.

She stands for a minute, the image of herself in the mirror before her arresting her — like she just walked off the set of a slasher flick. Her right arm, tended to by Mr Kaplan, is starkly clean where it isn't stained with iodine, and the only spot that is. Her other arm is flaky sienna splotches nearly to the elbow. Splashes and streaks mar her face, hair, neck. Arterial spray, she thinks, and bile rises in her throat. Most of the front of her pretty cocktail dress is now dark with blood; the hem is ripped where she'd fallen. Her one leg, covered from pressing against his side; the other knee stained from the hole in his arm. The delicate stockings are a laddery mess, torn and filthy from the pavement.

She is suddenly desperate to be clean, to wipe away all this evidence of pain as if it will wipe away the hurt too, and scrabbles at the zipper of her dress. It takes her three tries to wrench it open. She tugs a strap off her shoulder, and then yelps. The fabric, hardened by dried gore, is stuck — tugging at it threatens to rip her skin away, too.

And still, the tears won't come. She wonders vaguely why, as she stumbles into the gleaming shower stall fully dressed and cranks on the water. She makes it as hot as she can stand, letting water and steam alike soak through the carnage that coats her. It only takes a minute for the dress to loosen enough that she can peel it off, stockings and underthings following right after.

She kicks the whole soggy pile into the corner and starts to move frenetically, yanking pins out of her hair and scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing. The soap stings in the scrapes on her knees, the fingernail slices in her palms, but it smells like Red, and her throat is so thick she can't believe she's still breathing.

It takes too long for her to be clean, until all the traces have disappeared down the drain in a froth of red bubbles and her skin is pink and sore and smarting from her efforts. She dries herself in a hurry, and wrapping her body in the plush towel, sticks her head out the door.

She's greeted by the steady beep of the monitor and the even steadier gaze of a friend.

"No change," Dembe says quietly. "Kate brought some things for you — they're on the counter there."

Since she can hardly go out naked, she shuts the door again and looks at the counter. A pile of soft jersey — yoga pants, a worn Academy T-shirt, her favourite wrap — and a small cosmetic bag wait for her. She pulls the clothes on, grateful for their comfort, and tends to her basic needs — cleans the unpleasant tang of metal from her mouth, yanks a comb through her hair. Tapes gauze around her palms, so she won't mark up his sheets.

When she leaves the bathroom again, the room beyond is empty but for Red, lying so still in the big bed. He's been stripped and cleaned too, what she can see if him in clean grey cotton and white bandages. He looks smaller somehow, without his suit around him, his shield of charisma and bravado. Dembe has left a wide, plush-looking armchair pulled up to the side of the bed, so she curls into it, exhaustion tugging at her.

The door opens, startling her alert, but it's only Mr Kaplan, her arms full and a frown on her face. She comes to stand beside the bed and gives Liz a bottle of water and a handful of pills.

"Painkillers and antibiotics," she says. "Take them all and don't argue. You need to rest."

"I'm not–" Liz starts, but Kate interrupts with a roll of her eyes.

"I know, you're not moving," she snaps back. "Did I ask you to? Here's a blanket and a pillow — you can sleep right there if you must. But you won't do him any good if you drive yourself too hard."

Liz nods, and swallows her medicine obediently. By the time she's resettled herself with the bedding Kate brought, the other woman has gone again.

She reaches over and winds her fingers through his, an anchor of comfort, of need, of love. She yawns, and lets her eyes close, just for a minute.

"I'm here," she murmurs. "I'm here, Red. I'll stay, as long as you do."

* * *

 **A/N:** Some words borrowed from Season 3's _Mr Solomon: Conclusion_ , but given to Liz. Lyrics (paired lines of italics) from _Don't Go_ by Hannah Georgas, which is also mood for this whole chapter, and you should probably listen to it, it's totally on YouTube and Spotify and whatever.


	18. XVIII: Reclaim

**A/N:** People, I just let my sappy, romantic heart have its way here, so brace yourselves. When I say sappy, I _really_ mean it.

* * *

She stays, as she promised, disregarding all attempts to dislodge her, ignoring every person who tries to tell her it isn't necessary. She leaves the big chair only for lightning trips to the bathroom for human necessities; to keep herself clean.

Kate changes her bandages in the chair, grousing the entire time about how unsanitary it all is.

She takes an irate phone call from Ressler, who tears a strip off her for leaving a crime scene; then gruffly tells her she's clear for the shooting, asks after Red, and abruptly hangs up.

Dembe brings her food, but she can't oblige, forces down only what she absolutely needs. Her hot, aching throat won't allow more, swollen and sore, her chest weighted with agony.

She does the arm exercises Mr Kaplan orders her to, ensuring her own healing, sitting quietly in her chair.

She stays, holding his hand, and waits for him to come back.

They sigh, and work around her, keeping him alive, healing his wounds. Dembe sits too, sometimes, on the other side of the bed, keeping watch over them both. His silent companionship is just what she needs to keep going.

She sleeps only fitfully, terrified that if she lets go, he will too, and when she wakes up, he'll be gone for good.

A week wanders by, then two, with nothing to show for it but his continued breathing, steady and slow.

Once or twice, when the night lies heavy around them and there's only her in silent vigil, he becomes restless, as if nightmares follow him even now. Then, she climbs carefully into bed beside him and holds on, as tightly as she dares. He invariably quiets at her touch, and she stays until first light, watching her hand on his chest rise and fall, rise and fall.

She'll wait forever, if she must.

* * *

He hovers at the edge of consciousness, their murmured voices a comforting buzz just out of reach.

Male, strong and deep, but quiet so as not to disturb. _I'll take care...sleep...don't worry so…_

Female, light and sweet, worried and tired. _I can't let...just a little...wake without me._

There's tragedy in that voice, misery abject; such a familiar voice, and it's wrong to hear it so sad. He wants to soothe, but can't manage to open his eyes. She's close enough to touch, but he can't seem to move. _What's her name?_ He searches for it anxiously.

"Lizzie," he mumbles, _there it is._ Then, pleased with himself, falls away again.

* * *

"You can't go on like this, Elizabeth."

She ignores him, having become a consummate expert in not hearing what she doesn't want to.

"You know I will care for him, watch over him. You need to sleep, and not worry so much."

She turns to look at him, not letting go of Red's hand. "I can't let go," she says, trying to explain, knowing he won't understand. "If I give just a little, and then…" She can't say it, finds something better, more positive to say, instead. "I don't want him to wake without me."

Dembe sighs, and lowers his head in silent acknowledgement. She turns back to Red, reaches out with her free hand to stroke his cheek.

 _Wait, was that…_ His eyelashes had flickered, hadn't they? Then his fingers twitch against hers, ever so slightly, and her heart jumps painfully in her chest.

"Dembe," she says, nearly noiselessly, breathless.

"Lizzie," Red says, hoarse and raspy, and _himself,_ and tears hover, hover but don't fall.

"I'm here, Red, I'm here."

He doesn't move again, gone away into sleep once more, but her hope is renewed and with it, her determination.

With a warm hand on her shoulder, Dembe bends and kisses her cheek. "I'll make some tea," he says.

She hears him murmur to Kate as he leaves the room, _she'll never leave now._ And she won't.

* * *

How much later is it when the voices intrude again, filtering through his sleep to tug at him? He can't tell — minutes, hours, days. His body feels heavy, like it is made of concrete rather than flesh; like if he once moved and spoke and lived as a normal man, it was too long ago to recall.

 _They said he might...what if...I can't bear it._

Snatches of sound, bits and pieces of words. The woman again, sadder than ever, who is she? He remembered once.

 _Lizzie,_ his mind offers. _Elizabeth._

He's coming truly awake now, finding her in his mind. Lizzie, his charge, a duty long held. Lizzie, his colleague, a warrior, a friend. Lizzie, his lover and the woman who is…

 _Everything. Elizabeth. Everything._

There's pressure on his hand, just enough to rouse him the rest of the way, enough to give him the strength to slit his eyes open and look at them — his keepers, his caregivers, his loved ones. Lizzie is holding his hand in both of hers, pale and shadowed and much too thin, but she's mustered something of a smile for him and her eyes are bright with emotion.

"You're awake," she says, relief coating her tone, her hand squeezing his tighter. "You're awake. Are you– how do you feel? What do you…"

"Lizzie." He interrupts her, needing to her to know that he knows her, that he knows she is with him. _Beautiful_ , he wants to say, but the word is too much. " _My_ Lizzie," he says, with as much emphasis as he can manage. _His._

His eyes slip closed again with satisfaction at a job well done. As he drifts away again into the soothing dark, he thinks he hears her, a soft, sad whisper.

 _Oh, Red. Come back to me…_

He wants to say yes, to reassure, but the tempting dark is too strong.

 _Later,_ he promises, and hopes she might hear him.

* * *

He wakes a third time to silence, and it's odd enough at this point that his mind shakes open the rest of the way. He forces his eyelids up, a crack, then a little more, and sees the woman — _Lizzie_ , he reminds himself — standing at the window, looking out with her arms wrapped around herself.

 _His own,_ he thinks, with a rush of gladness and gratitude.

He tries to call out, and can't. Clears his throat, and just that small noise has her looking over and then at his side in a flash, gripping his hand and calling out.

 _Dembe_ , he thinks. _That's right._ Who else would it be?

He's there now, too, holding Red's other hand and smiling in a great beam.

They both start to talk at once, words tumbling over each other in a rush of sound.

"Red, are you okay? What do you need, what can I do?"  
"Raymond. It's about time, my friend. How do you feel?"

He shakes his head weakly at them; he thinks he is smiling.

"Maybe a little water," he manages. "And then one of you can tell me what happened."

"Maybe a little water," Liz agrees, and smiles, strokes his face. "Let's start small, hmm?"

* * *

It's sunlight that wakes him next, sunlight and an angry-sounding hum. His eyes open much more easily this time, and he looks for them, his family.

He sees them across the room by the door, having what looks like a fierce argument in hushed whispers.

 _I won't…while he's…I can do it myself, anyway._

 _Elizabeth…he won't want you to…you'll come right back…_

"And what are you two arguing about, on this fine day?" he asks, voice clearer and stronger than the last time.

They both look over, Dembe smiling, Lizzie not, although her face lightens when she sees him alert.

"Not arguing, really. Dembe thought you might like to clean up a little. And…" She hesitates, evaluating him carefully. "I'll grab a shower at the same time, to give you some privacy."

She hadn't wanted to leave him _,_ he thinks, and the thought warms him right through. He doesn't want her to go either, not even out of the room, but he can see how worn she is.

"Dembe is right, as always," he answers, striving for lightness, for reassurance. "Go ahead, Lizzie, and take your time. Don't worry so," he can't help but add, because she looks as if she hasn't slept properly in days.

She smiles faintly and slips away silently into the adjoining bath. He wonders at that, and it must show on his face, because Dembe smiles at him, a little sadly.

"She hasn't been out of this room since you came into it, Raymond."

Red mulls that over as Dembe helps him sit up, removes his shirt, checks his bandages, washes him with the same professional detachment as any nurse. He even fetches supplies from a bathroom down the hall and helps Red to clean his teeth.

Every step in the process helps him come more fully awake, more alert, more seated in reality. More himself.

Still, it is all far more laborious than he would like, and Dembe's gentle attentiveness aggravates rather than soothes, especially when he refuses to get irritated in return. Instead, placid and cool, he helps Red into a clean pair of pyjamas and supports him as he walks, limps, staggers into a huge and comfortable easy chair that matches the one beside the bed, turned to face the open window. Leaves Red to sit, a little dazedly, while he efficiently changes the bedding.

He sits, grumping inwardly, glad he is lucky enough in his family that he doesn't need to apologize, but is simply understood. They both hear the water shut off in the bathroom, and with an affectionate press on the shoulder, Dembe glides away, leaving him alone to wait.

And think.

Think about this beautiful, vibrant, treasured woman, wasting away, wasting her life in an old man's convalescent room. He may never be the same — should she spend the rest of her days watching over him, losing everything she loves?

He'll have to tell her to go, and the ache in his side is nothing to the pain that beats in his heart.

* * *

She'd forgotten to take a change of clothes in with her, but there's a robe on the back of the door. It somehow still smells faintly of Red's aftershave, and it makes her pause, yearning. When she slips back into to the bedroom, her heart freezes for a panicky moment when she sees the bed is empty, but the rustle of fabric alerts her to the man in the chair across the room.

She doesn't think her heart can take many more of these skipped beats, these frenetic moments of loss. She crosses the room slowly and examines his face carefully. He looks tired, but whole again, with a semblance of his customary sharp alertness. The relief of it is so great that she sinks to her knees on the floor in front of him.

He looks down at her, his expression warm but concerned.

"You look so tired, sweetheart," he says, reaching out to take her hand. "You haven't been taking care of yourself."

"It's been difficult to sleep," she admits. "I wanted...I was worried," she says lamely. _I was afraid,_ she thinks, _afraid that if I slept, I'd wake up and you'd be gone_.

"You should sleep now," he says, a little sternly. "I'm fine, and Dembe is here." _And then,_ he thinks but can't quite say, _you'll have to leave._

"You aren't fine," she returns with a small smile. "But you will be."

And saying it dissolves all her remaining tension in a wash of gratitude, the horrible ache that has become her constant companion finally loosening enough to give way. Tears start, at last, her eyes no longer like hot coals in her face but deep wells, oceans of liquid.

She thinks that might be enough, but now that the dam is broken, it _all_ comes in a flood, days and days of pent up stress and loss and fear. Great, choking sobs wrack her body painfully and she buries her face in his legs, clinging in desperation.

"Lizzie," he says, truly taken aback, his own planned words forgotten. "Sweetheart, I'm fine, everything is fine."

She tries to answer him, but the words are a garbled, drowning mess, so she just shakes her head against him, weeping out her agony.

A slight movement alerts him to Kate in the doorway, summoned by the noise. "Let her cry," the older woman says with uncustomary softness. "She hasn't, all this time — she needs it."

He nods and turns back, exerting himself to place his hand on her head, to stroke his fingers through her hair, in support, in sympathy.

She cries herself empty, until every last part of her is limp and exhausted, until she feels drained and scoured clean. She doesn't know how long it takes, but she does know he is still there, awake, watching over her.

She loves him so terribly, she can't think of the right words to express it — she's so very tired now. Her body is loose and relaxed, at last, is curled at his feet. Her head is pillowed on his thigh, fingers tangled in the fabric of his tear-wet pyjama pants, her eyes already heavy, slipping closed.

"Red," she says, her voice blurring, "I wanted…I wanted to…"

And then she's gone, lost in sleep, a soft and welcome weight against him. He doesn't have the strength to lean over and kiss her — he doesn't think he'd make it upright again. He sits, his hand on her head, savouring the peaceful moment, her quiet breaths, _life_.

Thinks about the light in her face when she'd seen him up and out of bed. Of the intensity of the storm of her emotions washing over him.

Of how good she feels against him, how _right._ And knows that he won't send her away, that he can't. _I'm sorry, Lizzie,_ he whispers, guilt not nearly strong enough to vanquish his need.

He waits as long as he can before quietly calling for Dembe.

"Don't wake her," he urges, as the big man plucks her gently from the floor.

Dembe carries her easily across the room, tucking her back into her nest of blankets as gently as he would an infant — she barely stirs at all.

"She's exhausted," Dembe says softly. "She should sleep well, now."

He helps Red change again, and lie back down too. "That's enough, for the first day," he says. "Call me, if either of you needs anything."

And Red is left alone, taking his turn to watch, to guard, to love.

* * *

It becomes a routine, somehow, his recuperation. He continues to find her by his bedside when he wakes, reading or working or just watching him, eyes intent. He thinks she is the only reason he didn't just drift away for good, that she anchored him to life with sheer force of will.

Between the two of them, she and Dembe bully him gently back to himself, refusing now to let him stay in bed all day. They put him in the chair by the window, help him downstairs; eventually, Dembe takes him outside for short, slow walks in the yard.

Finally, one sunny morning, Dembe takes the stitches out of his neck, the delicacy of those large hands always a surprise. Dembe replaces the customary thick gauze with a lighter covering taped over the mostly-healed wound and smiles.

"Almost there," he says, clearly pleased. "Do you want to get dressed today?"

Red thinks about it; but his limbs ache with exhaustion, the smarting itch of the new skin growth on his side both irritating and painful. "Not today," he says, "or at least, not now."

"All right," Dembe answers, with a slight frown. "But you can't laze about forever."

Red laughs, short and sharp, and they smile at each other in a moment of understanding. Dembe helps him back on with his soft cotton undershirt, and eases him down onto the pillows.

"Try and get up, Raymond," he urges, on his way out of the room. "Surprise Elizabeth when she comes back in."

Red considers that while he listens to the soft patter of the shower in the adjoining bath. Thinks about the glow of her face when she's happy; the shadows that still haven't quite left her eyes. The weight she's lost; the way the outlines of her show beneath her skin. He pushes himself up to sitting, breathing carefully, finding it much less of an effort than he'd expected. Legs down, then he's standing, on his own for the first time in what seems like months. He walks slowly, but without pain, across the room to the secondary base of his armchair, and sinks into it with a sigh.

It's only a few minutes more before Lizzie wanders into the room, wearing the silky black robe that she seems to have claimed as her own. She smiles when she meets his eyes, a gleaming ray that warms him, and crosses the room to greet him.

"You're up," she says, searching his face for signs of trouble or pain. "How do you feel?"

"Fine," he answers, sick of the question but understanding her need. "My stitches are out, and that's a relief. I…walked over here by myself." He's embarrassed to be saying it as if it means something, but the look of pleasure that sweeps over her face changes it to a sort of foolish pride.

" _Red,_ " she says, reaching down to squeeze his hands, "that's _wonderful._ You'll be back to running the world in no time at all."

He laughs at her, pulling a hand free to reach up and touch her cheek.

"If I am," he says quietly, "it's in large part due to you, Lizzie. I don't know what I would have done without you."

Her smile falters a bit and her eyes sheen over. "I wouldn't have been anywhere else," she says, meaning it.

She is struck with a strange sort of deja vu, suddenly, as she stands in front of his chair, just as she had stood before him that first time she went to him. She looks down into his handsome, familiar face with its quick and clever expressiveness and clear depthless eyes, and is so overwhelmed with love that she's surprised she can keep a coherent shape.

He's saying something about getting dressed and going for a walk, and she can't wait any longer, she needs…she needs _him,_ needs him back with her, to make him a part of her that won't be able to slip away. To reaffirm the connection that meant so much to them both.

"Not now," she says, interrupting him. "Just…"

Words seem to fail her momentarily; she leans in abruptly, cupping his face in her hands, and kisses him, long and soft and sweet. He loses himself in it easily, this wonder of touch. They have kissed so many times; have, over time, tasted each and every inch of each other.

But this is different.

This is…

He doesn't want to put a name to it, to the warmth that spreads, to the swell of feeling within.

She sighs, her hands slipping around his neck.

As she had once before, long ago now, she moves over him, settles across his lap, and presses close, though now she is careful to be gentle.

"Red, I...I need you to do something for me."

He raises a curious eyebrow, recognizing the words as she had known he would.

"Anything, Lizzie," he replies. "You know that."

"I need you," she says simply, heart in her mouth, "to let me love you." She kisses him again, can't help it. "And I need you to love me, too."

"Oh Lizzie," he breathes, and kisses her back, threading fingers through her damp hair, stroking down her spine. "Elizabeth, my heart, my love, my own. You're everything to me, _everything._ Love," he says thoughtfully, "isn't really a big enough word."

She smiles then, the first true smile in what feels like a lifetime, everything in her relaxing with the relief of it.

"Let me show you," she says, stroking his cheek. "Let me love you, now, for the first time."

She stands, moving like a woman in a trance, in a dream, her face solemn and still; lets her robe slip away to puddle at her feet as he watches with hooded eyes.

"Lizzie," he breathes, reaching out a hand in supplication, in need, in want. She is still, is always, the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.

"Shh," she says, voice as soft as her easy movements, taking his hand in hers. "It's all right — don't say anything, don't push yourself, don't even move. I don't want to hurt you, I just...I need...Let me give us this, so we both know."

He swallows hard, then inclines his head, drops his hand and leans back so she can do as she pleases. The sight of him, waiting, there makes her breath catch in her throat.

She has come to him in need, torn with lust and desperation; in fun, with games and laughter; in challenge, striking with anger and frustration; in generosity, to soothe his troubled mind. But now, now she comes to him in love, and they both tremble with the overwhelming intensity.

She is still warm from her shower, and the heated silk of her skin is better than the costliest linens, the most sumptuous of textures. Her hands, so gentle on his body, so careful yet so familiar, are better than the best medicine money can buy. She rouses him easily enough — even wounded and in pain, her slightest touch is enough to harden him, to call him to her.

The _feel_ of her as she wraps a hand around him and draws him out through his flies, as she slides over him with exquisite care, is a heart-wrenching homecoming.

She sits astride him, careful to keep her weight off, bracing herself on her knees, bracketing his hips. She surrounds him, fills his senses so she is all that he knows. She kisses him over and over again, featherlight. She waits, with him alert and ready inside her, until she thinks she cannot bear it any longer, then presses her forehead to his.

She rocks gently, movements almost imperceptible, just barely enough to feel. His eyes flutter closed with the tremulous pleasure it brings; his arms wrap around her to touch, to hold. There's no pain here, only joy, joy in the union, in the affirmation of life. He thinks, flush with need of her, brimming with emotion, that she could waken him from the dead.

"I love you," she says, just a whisper of sound, the oldest and most precious of secrets. "I love you, Raymond."

His eyes flash open as his heart stutters and cracks; becomes whole again, bursting with light. "Lizzie," he starts, but she quiets him with a kiss.

"I can't lose you," she says, then. "I can't.

"Raymond," she says again, his name a new and lovely taste in her mouth.

"Mine," she says, claiming him with every word, with every infinitesimal shift of her hips.

And she curls her fingers into his skin, eyes locked on his, and rocks, ever so slightly, again and again. She is suffused with feeling, everything around her gleaming, burnished gold in the warm sunlight. The perfection of it sings deep within, and she moves, quietly, gently, until he climaxes with a long, shuddering sigh of release.

She stills, resting her head on his shoulder, curling into him, content.

"I love you," she says again, and again. "I love you." As if she needs to make up for lost time. _(She does.)_

He kisses her head, overwhelmed, holding her as tightly as he can. They sit like that until she gets cold, letting love settle around them, and make them complete.


	19. XIX: Denoument

_Two months later…_

It's been a long day, but a rewarding one, she thinks, as she locks the door behind her and stoops to pick up the cat and give him a snuggle. She flops onto the sofa and he curls into her lap, purring in a loud, contented rumble.

"It's quiet here without him, isn't it?" she asks with a sigh.

She loves her new city, their new home, far away from the remnants of her former life. Has thoroughly enjoyed working with Dembe to set up another office for his foundation here — it's handy to be in Europe, anyway, proximity often valuable.

It's not that she minds being alone, either, really — and she has Oliver for company, a warm lump of contentment in her lap. It's more the way the _texture_ of the quiet is different. When Red is around, even when he isn't in the same room, the air seems charged with energy, with life. Without him, the London flat is too still, too silent, too empty.

She laughs at herself a little. He's only been gone four days, and he'll be back soon enough; for now, she needs to feed both herself and the cat, review her day's sessions, plan for tomorrow. She puts the cat on the floor, and he follows her to the kitchen, meowing for his dinner. She pours out his allotted portion of kibble, then stands at the fridge, staring absently.

There's nothing there that appeals, in particular, but it seems like a monumental effort to go out again, just for herself. _Cereal it is,_ she thinks, with a philosophical shrug. There are at least… _some_ essential vitamins and nutrients, right?

She's mid-pour when the door opens again, the sound making her jerk and spill a little on the counter. She dashes into the hall, beaming, and lands right in his arms as he strides into the flat.

"You're back early," she says happily, letting his warmth soak into her.

"They were doing fine on their own," he says, his arms tight around her. "I wanted to be home."

It's ridiculous to be so happy, just because she knows that when he says _home,_ he means _with her,_ and it's everything she needs.

"I love you," she says, because it's important, because she missed him, because she worried over him.

 _Lizzie,_ he whispers, and then his mouth covers hers, hot and sweet, tasting like the mints he favours and the scotch he must have had on the plane.

Long moments pass, lost in each other, until he pulls back to look at her, cups her face tenderly in his hands with that one particular joyous smile.

"I love you," he says. "I missed you." Because they'd agreed, when they'd decided to really try together, to say aloud all the things people usually take for granted. "Have you eaten?"

"I was…just about to," she says, grinning a little sheepishly now.

"Cereal, again?" he admonishes, laughing. "Let me take you out, hmm? Or are you too tired?"

"Dinner with you would be wonderful," she says. It's easy to go out again if it's with him, especially since he feels well enough now to go right out again after a long flight.

"Just let me change," she says, with a fleeting caress along his cheek. "Sit and have a rest while you wait."

He grins at her and pats her lightly on the butt. "I'm fine," he says with amused patience. "Go on, then, and put on something pretty." He adds an eyebrow waggle, so she'll know he's not serious.

She just rolls her eyes and walks away, enjoying the sound of his laughter behind her.

* * *

She's still only in her underwear, considering her closet, when she hears him. Or maybe just _feels_ him, his eyes on her intense. She looks over her shoulder, and there he is, leaning against the doorway, legs and arms crossed, watching her.

The way he looks at her never fails to make her breath catch.

She turns a little — showing off, maybe — and enjoys the way his form tenses. She puts one hand on her hip and raises an eyebrow.

"See something you like?"

He's across the room in an instant, hands hot on her skin, lips rough and hurried on hers. She responds eagerly — she knows no other way. Her hands find their way under his jacket to twist into the silky fabric of his vest and pull him close.

HIs hands on her body stroke, tease, search. She quivers under them, rising to his touch, murmuring need into his mouth. Just when she's about to start pulling off his clothes, he breaks their kiss and leans back to look at her, out of breath but grinning like a cat.

She tips her head toward their broad bed with a questioning look. "Are you sure you want to go out?"

"I have a craving for Thai," he says. "But maybe I'll go back to waiting in the living room, just to avoid temptation."

He saunters off with a wink, leaving her damp and restless and unsatisfied. She watches him walk away — he's got an excellent ass, after all — and plans for when they're home again.

* * *

He wanders out into the main area, marvelling, as he can't quite seem to stop doing, at the hand he has finally been dealt. That he has everything he ever wanted, as if he deserves happiness, as if he's just like anyone else.

He is starting to dare to think that perhaps, just perhaps, he can be. Just another man.

He thinks she watches him walk away, and that gives him a little boost, especially since he has to gingerly adjust himself before he can sit down. He only has to breathe in the scent of her to want her — it would be embarrassing if it didn't seem to be mutual.

Since they've been living together, over the few weeks that he's been mostly healed, they've enjoyed each other well, coming together gently, tenderly, frequently, curled together in their big soft bed. He loves waking up beside her — the sleepy murmurs she makes when they make love in the morning; the way she'll tease him so delicately that he sometimes wakes already inside her.

She has tended to him with a sweet generosity that has made him feel not only loved, but treasured; she has loved him over and over again in long leisurely hours together. She steadfastly refuses to let him "exert himself" unduly while he heals, and there's so much pleasure in putting himself into her hands that he hasn't really put up a fight.

He's not in any way unsatisfied — even the thought makes him want to laugh — and she doesn't seem to be either. Still, they both have broader tastes and desires, and he's been fit and well for a couple of weeks at least.

He thinks it's past time they indulge themselves in a little something…more.

* * *

He drives, saying he wants her all to himself, that Dembe has better things to do anyway. He often chooses to take them wherever they're going if neither of them are working, these days, making time together whenever they can. They are both so busy that every opportunity is one to be taken.

In typical fashion, he drives out to the outskirts of the South Bank somewhere, finding a tiny little eatery on a quiet street. It's crowded there despite it being out of the way, which tells her he's as accurate as he always is, and she's right — the food is fantastic.

The waiter calls him Mr Givens and chats with him like an old family friend. She wonders if there's anywhere in the world he doesn't have a favourite spot or two, a place to go where they know his name — at least _a_ name — and he can feel at home.

She thinks briefly of the loneliness that must have driven him to make these connections, over the years, and reaches across the table to clasp his hand.

He puts his wine glass down and looks at her, questioning. She just smiles at him, so he squeezes her hand gently and smiles back. They tell each other stories of their time apart, and laugh, and eat. Over two hours have passed by the time they're back in the car, flown by so easily. She thinks that she'll remember this evening, although there's nothing particularly special about it.

And maybe that's why.

She's so content that it takes a while to realize he's driving in the wrong direction.

"Aren't we going home?" she asks curiously.

"Not just yet," he says, glancing over with a grin. "Let's go for a drive."

"All right," she says equably, willing enough to prolong this peaceful time together.

Eventually, he pulls off the road into an unpaved lot beside a park. There's a winding path, greenery and lush grass — but it's late now, and pitch dark but for the hazy light in the car lot, and the starlight.

"Red, really?" She's laughing as he tugs her along. "It's already almost 11."

"Just look at the stars," he says, brimming with enthusiasm. "You don't have to get that far from the city for them to really shine, do you?"

She sighs, and snuggles up to him as they walk — it _is_ pretty, and it's quite nice to have the park to themselves. It's quieter, too, outside the bustling city, and the two of them are certainly safe enough. They amble through the warm night, Red pointing out constellations and waxing eloquent about the beauty of it all.

It's midnight before they're back at the car park — it's cooler now, and she's ready to go home. But he stops her just in front of the car and points, leaning into her.

"Look, Lizzie," he says, his voice warm in her ear. "Polaris."

The memory makes her smile. "Have you lost your way?" she asks, teasing a little.

He puts a palm against her cheek and turns her face to his. "I've found it," he answers, serious, then he's kissing her.

She returns it with a hum of pleasure; he's unexpectedly intense, and it's absorbing. She winds her arms around his neck and lets herself fall into it, dreamy and sweet. He turns again, then backs her up until her legs bump the front of the car.

"Lovely Lizzie," he murmurs, tracing the line of her jaw with soft lips. "Do you remember, some time ago, telling me some very charming stories about your…youthful indiscretions?"

She flushes hot, her body already thrumming with heady nerves, images flooding her brain. Not just memories of her younger self, daring and adventurous, but of Red. Red, fierce and intent, pushing her up against a wall in a dark nightclub and taking her to pieces with pleasure; Red, sliding fingers into her in a restaurant while he talks and teases her into ecstasy. "Yes," she says, a little cautiously. "I'm surprised you do."

"Are you really?" he asks, amused, pulling back to meet her eyes. "You painted a vivid picture, sweetheart. And I seem to recall something of a challenge."

His hands are staying busy while he talks, stroking and molding, lighting little sparks that shoot through her, making her restless. "Challenge?" she asks, already a little breathless.

"That's right," he says, and then he's lifting her with strong arms — his solid strength is somehow always a surprise — and dropping her neatly to one side of the hood ornament. "You asked me," he continues, running his hands up and down the outsides of her bare legs lightly, tantalizing, "if I would fuck you on the shiny hood of my Mercedes, and think about you every time I was in it."

His words do all the things his hands aren't, and she clings to him, dress sliding against the smooth metal so she presses against him. "Oh that," she replies faintly. "I remember now."

"I do apologize for taking so long to give you an appropriate answer," he says, "But there's no time like the present, is there, sweetheart?"

She hasn't the faintest idea what to say to that — but she doesn't have to say anything, because he follows his words with a searing kiss. She opens eagerly, tongue flicking out to meet his, a tangle of heat and need. Her legs come up to hook over his hips instinctually, heightening the contact between them and making him growl.

It's still this simple, like magic — his mouth, his hands, barely having to touch her and she's ready for him. She has a moment to wonder if this glorious hunger between them will last, if they can possibly sustain this level of pure desire. She hopes so.

"Red," she manages to say, keeping coherent with a small struggle. "Are you okay, love? It hasn't been that long since–"

"It's been more than long enough," he cuts in, "I need this as much as you do." He kisses her again, hard, hot, branding.

Then all conscious thought flees as he presses further into her, moving down her neck, tasting in hard little nips that make her _want._ She puts her arms down and braces herself on her hands so that she can arch into his mouth.

He makes an inarticulate sound of approval, then tugs the straps of her dress down her shoulders, freeing her breasts for his hand and mouth, shaping and licking and _god_ it all feels so good. He slides his other hand under her dress, yanking her panties down her legs, knocking a shoe off in the process. Leaving them dangling on one side, his hand runs back to center, to stroke and circle and tease.

She's so much putty in his hands, can do nothing but offer herself to him, burning with need, breath coming in soundless gasps. He's practically a part of her now, so close that she can feel his mouth curve into a smile.

"Is it good, like this?" The harsh rasp accompanies the push of his fingers, thrusting into her smoothly. "Hard and rough, just a little on the edge?"

She whimpers in response, _yes, yes;_ tightens her legs around his ass, digging in with her heels. A warm chuckle, a little breathless, his cock moves hard against her leg.

 _Lizzie,_ is all he can think, like a mantra. She's a siren beneath him, against him, the line of her body as she arches into him exquisite; the helpless noises of need she makes a sweet music. He lets himself go, mapping her with lips and teeth and fingers, marking her over and over as _his._

Dizzy with lust, he takes his hands off her, using one to support himself while he uses the other to tear open his belt and flies. He pushes at the skirts of her dress, gathering them and shoving them up and out of the way in one shot when she arches further to lift herself off the hood.

He takes a moment, then, to just drink her in, bare to his gaze in the night air, reddened from his attentions and glistening wet. She whimpers again, a hoarse gasp of his name, _Red,_ and he just falls on her.

Their mouths meet in a clash; he yanks her hands out from under her so she drops flat onto the car with a jerk. It only enflames her further — with her hands free, she wraps her arms around him, nails digging into his neck, the base of his scalp.

He thinks he could drown in her.

She clutches at him, the wool of his trousers against the inside of her thighs unspeakably arousing. Then he's there, _at last,_ feverish fingers widening her for his cock before he slams into her, glutes flexing under her feet.

She cries out, then holds tighter, tighter, as he starts to move. He's in and out of her in a rhythmic undulation of his hips, keeping nothing back. Where her naked skin touches metal it stick and pulls; one of his hands traps pieces of her hair, making her scalp sting.

She loves it.

Every sensation is a part of it all, the gift of his body over hers, _inside_ hers, bringing them together. He's moving faster now, losing the smoothness of his rhythm. _Lizzie,_ he rasps, and _mine; so good, so good inside you,_ he whispers, and _love you,_ he says, _I love you._ He's pressing into her, hard and fast and graceless, and the world disappears.

 _Yes,_ she says back, hoarse and needy, _god, yes,_ and _faster, please,_ and _Red, now, Raymond, love, love, I love you,_ like a stutter, then his cool fingers are between them, firm on her clit, and _oh, oh,_ all she can do is keen out her pleasure in a wordless sound as the orgasm rushes over her like a tidal wave.

He's coming too, a long moan through his teeth and hot, hard pulses inside her and he can't seem to stop moving even though it's over now. She thinks she could sleep, right there on top of the car.

* * *

She recognizes, vaguely, that several minutes have passed, draped limply over the car hood, Red's solid body against hers the only reason she doesn't just slither off into the ground. He's pressing kisses into her hair, against her temple, her cheeks and lips, mouth moving constantly.

She sighs in contentment, loathe to do anything at all, although her skin is starting to smart where it's stuck, sweaty and red, to the metal hood; although the parts of her out in the open air are cold and starting to feel stiff.

"Lizzie, sweet," he murmurs, "we should go, I suppose." But he doesn't move either, except for his mouth, still making love to her like he can't bear to stop.

"Mmmmm," she says, a long hum of sound that could be agreement or not. She doesn't really care.

With a long sigh, he pushes away, smiling when she makes noises of disapproval. A few swift movements have him put back to rights, then he pulls her gently upright and deftly rearranges her clothing, her shoes. Her eyes still closed, she drops into his chest sleepily, enjoys the rumble of his laughter against her cheek.

He picks her up then, and carries her around the car to tuck her into the passenger seat. He even buckles her seatbelt, sneaking another nip at her shoulder while he does it.

The last thing she's conscious of is the warm weight of his jacket coming down around her and the soft click of the car door.

She's asleep before the engine starts.

He heads for home, tired too, but invigorated enough to get them there safe and sound. He checks on her frequently, glancing over at her peaceful sleeping face, quick peeks in the rearview mirror.

She'll wear his marks again tomorrow, for the first time in a long while, and the thought fills him with smug pleasure. He'll wear hers too, if the smarting on the back of his neck is any indication. If his recently healed wounds and the new skin on his side ache a little from the exertion…well, it's only fair. It doesn't really bother him, not with the new pictures he has in his head.

He reaches over without looking, to touch her like a lodestone, to reassure himself that she hasn't somehow disappeared like a dream. She is warm and comfortingly real under his hand, and he's more than content. He's happy, maybe more than he's ever been.

He thinks that if they can continue on, finding a balance between honesty and conversation, simple love and daring play, that they'll do very well together. That maybe, they can make something that lasts.

The next time he glances over, she's watching him out of drowsy eyes. "You're my way home, too," she murmurs, reaching out. "I love you, Red," she says. "For always."

His heart stutters and trips; he knows he's wearing his most foolish smile. "For always," he agrees softly.

He holds her hand the rest of the way home.

* * *

 **A/N:** This has been the most drawn-out fic of ever, and I can't thank you all enough for hanging in there with me, because it's genuinely insane. I'm both glad to have finished it the way I wanted to, and sorry to be finished with this iteration of our OTP. It started out PWP and ended up way more, but I think it went well.

I need to give credit to _Beautiful Stranger_ , by Christina Lauren, for both the inspiration for this not-quite-friends-with-benefits plotlet, and for a few of the…situations. If you are looking for some incredibly compelling smut in book form, I highly recommend the entire _Beautiful_ series.

I heart you guys, and I'll see you again soon!


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